Chapter 9: The Knight, the Bull, and the Lord

10 years later

As he took another sip of his drink, the Knight looked at his hands. Though to anyone else, they looked relatively clean and uncovered by gloves of any sort, to him, they were still covered in white metal gauntlets drenched in blood, his blood. No matter how much he drank, he still saw the blood. It haunted his dreams, and dominated his every waking moment. Every day for the past 18 years, he would train in the courtyards of his ancestral home, train until he would fall from exhaustion, then collect himself, and drown all his sorrows and guilt straight to the bottom of a bottle. Afterwards, he would either drag himself back to the estate, or he would collapse in a drunken mess and a few servants would come and collect his unconscious self, and perhaps unceremoniously dump him into his room. To him it was all he deserved.

Arthur Dayne sighed, then took another sip of his wine. He was on his third bottle. By now, the room had started to blur a bit. He sat by himself at the same small, dreary table in the same small, dreary corner at the same small, dreary tavern that he had been coming to every night for the past 17 years. No one wanted to sit with or be seen with him. Sometimes he felt that his family did not even want to be near him.

Once, he had been the famous Sword of the Morning, protector of the innocent, upholder of the code of chivalry, and wielder of House Dayne's ancestral greatsword, Dawn. His honor had been impeccable, his purpose noble, his actions unquestioned, and his strength great. He often bitterly mused that his decision to join The Mad King's Kingsguard had been the beginning of what would be his fall from grace. It had seemed a grand idea at the time, for he had been so young and so foolish. Oh, he had served faithfully, upholding his vows to the letter, protecting both the royal family and the common folk from harm, forming unbreakable bonds of brotherhood and trust with the other members of the order, and had even managed to strike up a friendship with the then crown prince, Rhaegar.

When he, Lord Commander Gerold Hightower, and Owsell Whent had received word that Jon Connington had died at the battle of the Bells, they had grieved for their brother but remained steadfast in their duty. The moment of reckoning had arrived, though, when, standing guard outside the throne room, the three knights heard Aerys' words to his pyromancers. At that moment, they had been torn; duty to the code, or protect the innocent. As the pyromancers left, the three knights killed them all, without hesitation or mercy. While Oswell and Gerold had guarded the entrance from the rest of the kingsguard, Arthur had entered the throne room, Dawn's white blade drenched dark red in the pyromancer's blood. The look upon the Mad King's drawn and feral face had been one of either disbelief, anger, madness, or perhaps a mixture of all three, Arthur did not know. He had pointed bloody Dawn at the king, imploring him to surrender, to let this madness end, but Aerys had simply spat at him, calling him and his brothers all sorts of black names, and claiming that all he had done, and what he had ordered the now dead pyromancers to do, was necessary for his coming "apotheosis". The king's madness had transcended anything Arthur had ever seen.

Suddenly, the king had leapt towards Arthur, hands outstretched like the claws of some terrible beast, and ended up impaled through the chest upon Dawn's blood-drenched white blade. Arthur had been shocked and horrified, both at himself, and at the king's lunatic actions. Before he had died, the king had spat a large glob of blood onto Arthur's face, and then expired.

He remembered the corpse sliding off wetly, and landing upon the floor with a small splat. Numbly, he had heard Dawn fall from his grasp, but Arthur could do nothing save fall to his knees in front of the king's dead body. Even when the screams from outside the Red Keep began as the Lannister army sacked the city, and Oswell and Gerold slaughtered the rest of the Kingsguard, their brothers in arms, he felt rooted to the spot, simply staring at his hands, his bloody, gauntleted, trembling hands.

When Eddard Stark, husband of Arthurs's sister, mounted upon a great black stallion, and his host of shadar-kai and shadowborn humans had entered the throne room, and beheld Arthur standing over the body of the Mad King, he could do nothing, but continue to stare at his hands. Finally, he had been quietly led away.

Soon after, when Robert Baratheon was crowned king, Arthur, Oswell, and Gerold had been quietly discharged from the Kingsguard, which in turn was forever disbanded. From Kings Landing, the three had parted ways, and he had headed back to his ancestral home of Starfell, and slowly crawled his way straight down to the bottom of a very long bottle. Some call him an oath breaker, a rare few actually called him a hero, but most just left him alone, like the odd man in a room that no cares enough about to even sit near. The worst of it was his new title. No longer was he "Sword of the Morning", no, he was bequeathed a new, more fitting epithet: Kingslayer.

'At least Gerold and Oswell can only be called traitors', he bitterly mused.

Arthur was shaken from his self-loathing by a young, cruel voice. "Well, well, well. Fancy seeing you here, cousin."

Arthur groaned, and pulled his wine bottle closer to him. This was not what he needed right now. "Darkstar. What an unexpected displeasure."

Gerold "Darkstar" Dayne was from a cadet branch of House Dayne whose home was that of High Hermitage. Looking at him, one would almost think that it was Arthur in his prime, except for the black stripe running through his otherwise silver hair. But Arthur knew that beneath that exterior of otherworldly beauty lurked a savage and dark persona. Darkstar was responsible for a number of black deeds across much of Dorne too awful to be spoken aloud. He was a villain in every sense of the word, made more frightening by the fact that he was perhaps teetering upon the brink of complete insanity.

Once, Arthur had entertained the idea of slaying his dark cousin. But he had decided that becoming a kinslayer along with a kingslayer, would only heap more dishonor upon his house. "Why are you here? Come to slay defenseless maids and innocent children?"

Darkstar seemed unfazed by the insult. "Is it so strange of me to wonder how my dear older cousin is doing? After all, family must stick together." Saying this, the man gave smile with the same amount of sweet promise that a jar of poisoned honey gave.

Arthur snorted in response. "The day that shadowy stone you call a heart starts beating and caring about something other than yourself may be the day that I actually die."

"Be careful what you wish for, coz. You never know when such a request may be granted."

Arthur did not rise to the bait, just simply drank another mouthful of wine. "What do you want, Gerold, come to mock me?"

"Why, you wound me Arthur. I simply thought it prudent that I and a few of my loyal men should escort you home tonight. You never know who might take advantage of you in your current condition."

Arthur knew that it was not a suggestion. That idea was reinforced when they roughly dragged him from the tavern and threw him onto the street. Even more so when Darkstar began to kick him in the ribs. Just his luck that the man was wearing steel shod boots.

No one did anything, due to Darkstar's notorious reputation. Still, despite the pain in his chest, and the fact that he was lying uncomfortably on his side upon a cobblestone road while a madman kicked him, Arthur found the courage to let loose a laugh. "Well, this is noble of you, Darkstar. Kicking a defenseless drunkard when he is down!"

Darkstar responded with a savage grin and another kick that drove the air from Arthur's lungs. The man's cronies laughed. "Look at you. Arthur Dayne, once the famed Sword of the Morning. The pinnacle of what it meant to be a knight. Now, you're just a pathetic drunkard who killed his king. How hard the mighty have fallen, wouldn't you agree?"

"Aye, though that is something you'll never have to worry about, for you will never be great."

A third kick. This time, Arthur coughed up a bit of blood. "I don't think that you are in any position to judge me, old man, lying upon the ground the way that you are, and in your current state." Darkstar jeered. "When I was young, all I heard were tales about your deeds, about your greatness, and about yourdamned honor. I have surpassed you in every way, cousin. I am that which you could never be. And one day soon, Starfell will be mine!"

At this, Arthur found the strength to draw himself upright. "Aye, and how do you reckon that? Do you think my brother, weakened though he may be from his sickness, will make you his successor? He already has an heir. You will get nothing, and one day you will be put down like the mad animal you are, cousin."

Two more kicks, and more blood from his mouth. "So sure you are, Arthur. So confident upon your drunkard's perch of righteous self-pity. Well, do you know what?" At this, Darkstar leaned in close to Arthur's face. "Things change. People die. Children die. And sharp swords will ever be drenched in blood. There is a storm coming, Arthur. And upon it rides the winds of change. When it comes, you will not survive."

With a last kick, Darkstar and his cronies left. Arthur remained upon the ground of that street for a good while, before spitting out a bit more blood, painfully standing up with a groan, and began to drag himself back to Starfell.

As with every night, when he fell into slumber's wretched embrace, shadows and the dead filled his dreams; The Smiling Knight, an insane shadar-kai bandit, holding his severed, yet still grinning, head in his hands. King Aerys, a gaping wound in his chest where Dawn had impaled him. The countless innocents slain when the Lannister army had sacked King's Landing. They, and so many others, all staring at him, some accusatory, some pitying. In the dreams, he would scream, he would weep, he would curse, he would plead, or he would do nothing.

Yet, like always, near the end of the dreams, the dead would vanish, chased away by, of all things, a sunrise. A bright, golden, and rose-pink sunrise. And, for a moment, before waking, Arthur Dayne would know peace.

Xxxxxxxx

He did not think about it much anymore, the sound his fists made when they connected with flesh.

Once it had been hard to not think about it, back when the Bull had first entered the brawler's pit several years ago, in Oldtown. After the first few matches, he learned to block out the sounds, especially the screams of pain, just like that fateful day.

The loud voice of the pit's crier broke him from his musings. "Tonight, in this esteemed arena lords and ladies, we have a spectacular match. Newly arrived to Oldtown from the windy mountains of the Vale, I present to you TARREN STONE!

The man stepped forward. He was young, perhaps of about nine and ten years, yet well-muscled and somewhat tall for his age. He had a strong chin, an aquiline nose, and symmetrical eyes. Altogether, a rather handsome face. Shame it was going to be smashed in soon.

"And facing him, the on-and-off again champion of the arenas, the old man of Oldtown, the Bull himself…GEROLD HIGHTOWER!

With that, the two fighters rushed towards one another.

The years had been both kind and unkind to Gerold Hightower. Physically, he was still the strong, large, intimidating man that had once been Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, though his hair had long turned to a thin grey, a heavy beard coated his chin, his hands sometimes ached, and he had thickened a bit round the waist, to say nothing of the multitude of scars and bruises that now covered his entire body.

Internally though, he was a much different man than he had been 19 years ago. Where he once lived to serve the Royal family, and stay true to his vows of knighthood and service, he now existed merely for the fight. Where once he would be garbed in gleaming plate of pure white, and use his sword, he used his fists mainly now, and hardly wore anything heavier than simple clothes.

Once, he had been known to slay wicked bandits and defend the innocent. Now, he simply stood victorious over Torren Stone, the young man's face hardly recognizable due to the multitude of bruises and bloodstains covering his visage. As Stone was picked up by two toughs, to no doubt be tossed out onto the street as losers oft were, the little shit of an announcer's voice rang out over the cheering of the small crowd, having just finished collecting the proceeds from various bets laid about the fight.

"Yes, another stunning conclusion to the evening's match! Three cheers for the Bull of Hightower!"

As the customary three cheers were given, the crier turned towards Gerold, and whispered "Good show, ser, but did you have to be so rough? You could 'ave killed 'im."

With a hard stare leveled at the man, Gerold grunted, than put a large hand down on his shoulder with a small bit of force. "I do what they come here to see. Now pay me my winnings, and get the fuck out, little man."

With fear in his eye, the crier quickly nodded, paid the amount of gold dragons that Gerold had won, and then scurried away like the rat he was. Soon, the makeshift fighting ring was empty, save for Gerold. He looked around, feeling the sack of gold coins in his hands. Not for the first time, he still wondered how he had come to this. Once a proud knight, now just a misbegotten ring fighter. Then, the memories began to come back and he banished the thoughts from his mind, as he always did. He preferred not to remember the screams, the flashing swords, or the white armor drenched in scarlet blood.

His own nephew perhaps tolerated him at best, and shunned him at worst. Not that he truly cared about that. If Gerold was honest with himself, he would find that he cared about very little anymore. He shook his head, and strode out. This was who he was now. No longer the White Bull, proud knight and commander of the Kingsguard. Now, he was just the Bull, a brawler of the pits. An aging champion of the fist. An old, strong, yet broken and sad man.

Xxxxxxx

There were days when he wanted to truly strangle someone. On other days, he wanted to crawl into a corner and die. Most days, it was the former, especially when peasants and minor lords under his family's rule came to him to settle their seemingly endless and inane fucking disputes.

"…..and so Lord Whent, I demand that you please accept my request to punish Jon Cotter here for his crime against me, and that I receive that which was stolen from me twofold", the minor noble asked.

The Lord looked at the two men, his gaze darkening until his eyes seemed to hold the capacity to hate everything before him with a disdain blacker than the night itself.

"I want something clarified. You good sers actually had the audacity to stand before me, the Lord of Harrennhall, and my court, so as to bicker like two squawking hens, over which of you two will have the privilege of the ownership of a fucking cow?!

The men at least the decency to look some what embarrassed. "It's... a very good cow?" One of them hesitantly said.

The Lord stood up. "Since you two idiots have so wasted the time of myself and my court, I shall render my judgement. You shall share the cow, once it is cut in half! Guards, please escort them from my sight. Court is finished for today. Everyone, please fucking leave."

Oswell Whent remained seated upon his chair as the Hall of the Hundred Hearths was emptied of lords and ladies of the court. To look upon the lord of Harrenhal, the word 'dark' is likely to spring to mind. Never did he wear or bother to look at anything lighter than black, especially not the color white, which he abhorred. A dark beard adorned his face and chin, and dark bags ever hung under eyes. But worse was his disposition.

Where once he looked at everything with a dark humor, he now looked at with a black hatred. He loathed himself, and hated everything else. He never smiled anymore, never laughed. The only emotion ever upon his face was usually anger or displeased boredom. Not that anyone could entirely blame him. Being forced to slaughter his own brothers-in arms and then being reviled as an oath breaker tended to have a sobering effect on anyone.

He remembered that day, after the sack of King's Landing. When he, Gerold, and poor Arthur had stood before the Usurper as he stripped them of their knighthoods and disbanded the Kingsguard. The three friends had ridden out of the city together, morose as the commonfolk spat, jeered, and threw things at them, especially at Arthur. After three days, they each went their separate ways, and Oswell headed back to the Riverlands.

There had been one incident during those weeks on the Kingsroad, where he ended up slaughtering a small band of thieves who had tried to rob him. He remembered sitting upon the ground afterwards, covered in blood, breathing heavily with the bodies strewn and dismembered all around him, as if a wild animal had torn through them. Oswell later remembered having hacked at the bodies even after they died, screaming and sobbing like a madman all the while.

Once a white knight, now a black lord. Where once he laughed, now he raged.