ARTHUR DAYNE
Day 24, 11th Moon, 275 AC
In King's Landing, Arthur lingered within a corridor above one of the Red Keep's training yards. This one belonged to the Kingsguard knights, who honed their skills here.
Below, Sers Gerold Hightower and Barristan Selmy sparred in plate armour. His feet refused to move as he stared in awe.
Their sure strikes and parries. Each sequence differed from the last. The two knights did more than clash swords or glance off of armour. They wove away from each other's blades effortlessly, like breathing. Their speed and ferocity beguiled the knights' actual ages.
They, like him, were the true knights of Westeros. Men of justice, humility, compassion and integrity. Of the current knights of Westeros, only three were considered 'true' knights. Currently, all three stood within a stone's throw of each other.
He leaned on the window sill. The pair below were of high calibre, acts of valour, and years of experience. Arthur lacked both. He had far, very far, to go to prove himself a knight such as them.
Had he squired for either true knight, especially Ser Barristan Selmy, he'd have thanked fate for it. As a boy, he'd dreamt of such an honour.
As far back as King Aegon the Fifth, the grandfather of today's king, Ser Gerold served in the Kingsguard. After the Tragedy of Summerhall, upon Ser Duncan the Tall's death and the beginning of King Jaehaerys the Second's reign, Ser Gerold became Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. And during the War of the Ninepenny Kings, he'd directed the royal army upon that Hand of the King's death.
Although his years of service were long, he was still a fierce swordsman, 'The White Bull'.
Ser Barristan Selmy, before joining the Kingsguard, fought in the War of the Ninepenny Kings and slew Maelys 'the Monstrous' Blackfyre in single combat. That act ended the Blackfyre Pretenders. Iron Throne claimants who'd brought bloodshed and suffering to Westeros five times. Ser Barristan Selmy finished it, and all knew his name. Upon that victory, Ser Gerold accepted Ser Barristan into Jaehaerys II's Kingsguard. Sixteen years ago. Ser Barristan Selmy was now nine-and-thirty.
Down the hall came loudening conversation between ladies. Arthur turned. Those voices, ladies, followed Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, who approached wearing black and ruby-inlaid armour, flanked by a boy of five-and-ten with fiery hair. A court session hadn't occurred yet, but Arthur only needed a glance; silver-blond hair and indigo eyes. At Dornish tourneys, exaggerated comparisons often reached Arthur's ears.
Unless Lord Lucerys Velaryon had a son of six-and-ten, Prince Rhaegar approached. Not to mention the two aged Kingsguard knights tailing him.
Prince Rhaegar stopped beside Arthur. "I've heard things. Dawn is strapped to your back, I see. Come. Humour me with a spar, Ser Arthur."
Arthur bowed, but the suggested spar could cost him his head. "It's a pleasure to meet, My Prince. Mayhaps with sparring blades? His Grace would not take kindly should I harm his only heir, Prince Rhaegar. I pray you understand," he said, employing what Father taught him about courts. Outright refusal wouldn't help.
Prince Rhaegar turned his gaze to the window, and Arthur caught a glimpse of disappointment. "Well reasoned. We shall meet in the yard. My squire, Jon, will assist you with your armour, as I have no such need."
New Dayne knights donned armour themselves to learn humility, but Arthur agreed to ease matters with the prince. "Thank you, My Prince."
Prince Rhaegar nodded and left.
On Jon and Arthur's way to the guest bedchamber, two Martells wearing their House's hot red and orange walked in the opposite direction. Elia and her uncle, Prince Lewyn, conversed deeply. "-choose me to come to King's Landing instead of your brother?" Prince Lewyn asked. "Doran is the future ruling prince of Dorne. Obtaining favour with King Aerys would be to his benefit."
Both seemed oblivious to Arthur and Jon's presence. Elia glanced at a window. "I don't want to be near Doran any more than I have to. Not after his meddling," she said and turned back to her uncle. "Besides, the rest of Westeros looks down upon Dorne. So the king would have no interest in us. And Mellario's having her babe soon; she would want Doran there."
Arthur discreetly loosened his dagger belt. It clanged on the stone floor, echoing in the halls. The Martells fell silent, but their steps continued. Arthur knelt, picked up his belt, and glanced at Elia. Her eyes shone brightly, her smile soft.
She approached while he fixed on his belt, and Elia stopped with her uncle beside her. "Good afternoon, Ser Arthur, and…I'm sorry, Ser, I'm afraid we haven't met."
The redhead puffed with pride. "I am Prince Rhaegar's squire, Lord Jon Connington. I'll be Lord of Griffin's Roost after my father, my lady."
Elia wore a circlet and bore the looks of a Salty Dornish, her title quite obvious. Arthur bristled at the inadequate address and rectified it with manners. "This is Princess Elia Martell and her uncle, Prince Lewyn Martell. The ruling House of Dorne."
Jon Connington all but ignored the Martells after nodding in their direction. Instead of respect and lifting Elia's hand as a lord would a lady or princess, the lordling pretended nothing was amiss. "I'm to prepare Ser Arthur for a spar against Prince Rhaegar. We're expected soon," he said and brushed off Arthur's prompting.
It would relieve Arthur if he could dismiss the arrogant six-and-ten Stormlander, but he had no choice. Peace in the Red Keep demanded it. His bedchamber door was near, so he seized the opportunity. "Prince Lewyn." Arthur bowed his head. "Princess Elia." He pecked her knuckles, looking into her eyes.
A smile played on her lips. "Lord Dayne seeks you, Ser Arthur. I shall let him know where to find you. Good day." Elia and her uncle turned a corner, their voices no longer bouncing off the walls.
Arthur retrieved the plate armour in his bedchamber and changed out of the Dornish attire of a decorated robe over breeches and a low front tunic. Shrugging on a tunic and mail, he arranged his plate armour while the squire slowly secured the straps and buckles. The extra hands were helpful but uncomfortably lingered near Arthur's neck and shoulders. Arthur exhaled and pushed the matter aside.
Jon Connington passed him the helm when there was a hurried knock. "Thank you," Arthur said and turned to the door. "Come in." His brother entered with a neutral expression. Arthur turned to Jon Connington. "Could you inform Prince Rhaegar I won't be long?" Alijah's haste and silence stirred his mind.
The squire nodded and left.
Alijah scowled at Connington's back. "Would it kill you to greet a Dornishman, you arrogant pig? Arthur," he said and approached. "Don't show your full ability in this spar. Trust me, Brother, match the prince but don't beat him. Wear him out."
"Alijah, I had no intention of besting him with force."
While Arthur leaned against the wall, Alijah took a seat stiffly and looked at him. "I'm watching your back, Brother. Promise you'll hide your prowess in King's Landing. I've gathered that two of the Kingsguard might as well be temporary placeholders these days. Another isn't far from it, either. They won't live long. Half a Kingsguard. The Lord Commander will be seeking potential replacements."
Pushing off the wall, Arthur clasped Alijah's shoulder. "Throwing away a good future with Elia is the last thing I want. I have no intention of joining."
"I know." Alijah rose and gripped both of Arthur's. "The king can appoint men to the Kingsguard. It's politically damning if you refuse. You will be bound for life. There is no leaving. Gain the king's or Kingsguard's attention, and you can say goodbye to marrying Elia." Alijah inhaled and stared into Arthur's eyes. "Limit what skills you demonstrate in King's Landing."
"You have my word." Alijah released a breath and closed his eyes. The weight of Dawn seemingly increased. He went to remove the scabbard from his back, but a hand stayed Arthur's. "Alijah?"
"If you stop carrying a greatsword, there'll be questions. Have you drawn Dawn at all, Arthur? It was sheathed on your back at the port this morning."
"No," he said, meeting Alijah's eyes. "But Prince Rhaegar recognised Dawn in the company of Jon Connington. He wanted to spar against it." Arthur pressed the hilt inwards, and a slight metallic scrape echoed. Improperly sheathed.
Alijah's face contorted. "Fuck! There's no swapping Dawn now. If half the Kingsguard weren't so aged, there wouldn't be a problem. The prince and his squire know about Dawn. Rumours will spread. Seven Hells…" His brother rubbed his temples.
All this talk would've taken time. Sane people don't keep Targaryen royalty waiting. "I have to go unless you have ideas? Switching to a regular greatsword was mine too."
"I don't, Brother, but be scarce after the spar." Alijah tilted his head towards the discarded robe. "Thank the gods you wore a plain robe earlier. Your formal one is memorable."
"There's that."
"Pull your punches, Arthur."
"I will, Brother."
Tarrying would annoy a decent prince but anger one with a hidden temper. So, with a firm nod to his brother, Arthur left for the Kingsguard training yard.
The closer he got, the more people lined the corridors. Some stood where he'd watched Ser Gerold Hightower and Ser Barristan Selmy. Tension gathered in his shoulders. Courtiers whispered, and the pit of his stomach grew heavy. He'd fought with audiences before, but holding back would be foreign.
At least one member of the Kingsguard would oversee this spar for Prince Rhaegar's safety. They'd deduce his pretence if their attention focused on Arthur for too long. A decent swordsman could identify a toying opponent in combat. The Kingsguard were the best. They'd notice him downplaying his technique if Arthur wasn't subtle enough.
Two Martells donned in their House colours headed his way. Elia made eye contact and hurried to Arthur. "Arthur, there's something you need to know." Then, supporting herself with his shoulder, Elia pecked Arthur on the cheek. "For luck," she whispered. "Word has it the heir is sparring with live steel. I think he wants you to use Dawn."
He closed his eyes and exhaled. Shit, he's trying to manipulate the matter. Opening his eyes, Arthur forced himself to relax. "He originally wanted me to. It doesn't mean I must. Thank you, Elia." He tucked a loose strand behind her ear. "I must go on ahead. The longer he waits, the longer the idea will settle in his head."
Elia gave a small smile and stepped back. "Be careful," she said. Prince Lewyn, behind her, nodded.
Arthur smiled. "Always."
The closer he got, the more people lined the windows. He kept from glancing outside. Pictures of a melee filled his mind, and he welcomed them. A suitable means to centre himself. This would be a spar like any other, the opponent confident in himself and yearning for victory.
In the training yard, he noted the ground he would spar upon. Ahead stood Prince Rhaegar, flanked by an occasionally distracted Jon Connington. The two knights Arthur watched earlier, Ser Gerold and Ser Barristan Selmy, were present along with the rest of the Kingsguard.
All seven guaranteed King Aerys's presence. Never had a king been without a Kingsguard knight protecting him. Aerys Targaryen was here. Either with an agenda or Prince Rhaegar felt confident and wanted to publicly best Arthur.
Arthur retrieved a sparring greatsword inside the armoury, but Alijah stopped him from leaving. "Pass me Dawn. You can't spar properly with it on your back." Arthur unbuckled the strap when on his right shoulder. "And Arthur, there's animosity between father and son. If King Aerys demands your best or with Dawn…."
"Then I must," he finished. "What in the Seven Hells is he doing here?"
Alijah took Dawn, propped it against the wall, and shook his head. "I wish I knew, Brother."
Arthur assessed the balance of a sparring sword. Decent craftsmanship, but a more poorly distributed one would make his movements appear more genuine. The fourth he tested satisfied him. A nod from Alijah said it all. Arthur made his way out to the yard.
There, Prince Rhaegar lifted his sword, its edge indeed sharp. "No Dawn? Do you not wish to use it?" Prince Rhaegar asked and mimicked Arthur getting into position.
"I'm rather fond of my head." Arthur shot rightward as the prince's eyes moved leftward. Eyes divulged everything.
A clang, and he countered.
He retreated while vibration shook through his wrists. The prince's eyes stayed on his.
Slash, parry, block. The edged blade shone.
Arthur jumped, sword whistling below him.
He held his ground. Ringing metal and harsh breath. Arthur copied the prince's technique, hiding his own.
"Get on with it!" the king shouted. "We don't have all afternoon!"
Arthur's heart quickened as he rushed the prince.
Shoulders crashed. Crossguard against crossguard, he shoved the live sword from the prince's grasp.
Metal thudded stone. Steel weighed in his hand.
He darted and blocked the prince's way to the sword.
Arthur bowed his head to Prince Rhaegar. "A fruitful wager on my part. Well fought, Prince Rhaegar."
"Ser Arthur." Prince Rhaegar retrieved the fallen sword and left in silence. With a straight spine, Arthur witnessed the king smirk towards Prince Rhaegar; chills trickled down his back.
Seizing the opportunity to leave, Arthur exchanged the sparring sword for Dawn and left with Alijah. The king simply going was peculiar, but the sooner Arthur was out of sight and forgotten, the better.
Arthur followed Alijah through halls and deep into the godswood until King's Landing's stench grew weak. This far among the trees ought to conceal him, so Arthur sat on a boulder's edge and met Alijah's gaze. "I had to end it. With the king present, I didn't know what would happen," he said while Alijah joined him. "You've seen me spar thousands of times. How much did I give away about myself?"
Alijah gave a quick smile. "Not much. You copied the prince and made what seemed like a desperate move. There's nothing else you could've done," Alijah said, unbuckling Arthur's armour. "An impatient king is nothing to test your luck with."
The removal of armour gave way to cool wind. "I know, but I can't hide away for the rest of our visit."
His brother sighed beside him. "Stay here while I find out about the court, Arthur. The spar was a brief fight. Gossip about the prince's defeat needs a chance to die down. I don't know how common his defeats are, but you roaming the Red Keep won't help. It's afternoon already. Explore or something here. I'll find you later."
Coming to King's Landing to present himself as The Sword of the Morning during a court session in the Throne Room was turning into stress and nothing but.
ELIA MARTELL
Elia attempted to ignore King's Landing stench, especially the streets where she and her uncle walked. The pungency surrounded her everywhere, including the Red Keep. Inescapable. How people slept through it was beyond her. She would struggle tonight, as would Arthur, Alijah, and Uncle Lewyn.
Purchased in the city, she carried a bag of scented candles. Whether they'd help with sleeping remained to be seen. She prayed they would.
An intersection of streets neared, but Uncle Lewyn took a wrong turn for the Red Keep. "Uncle? Don't you mean to go straight?" she asked, gazing at the tall, pale red stone near the coast.
He glanced her way and shook his head. "I want a reprieve from all the shit. You likely do as well. Blackwater Bay is said to be better than the Red Keep," he said and led the way east to tied rowboats and gave several coppers to an assumed owner. "The Dayne brothers quickly became scarce after the spar."
After her uncle, Elia climbed in while he took up the oars. "It didn't seem like Arthur wished to spar. He had that worried look about himself when we found him again," she said, gazing at the rock edge of Aegon's High Hill.
"And he should be." Water sloshed when Uncle Lewyn's laboured breath quickened. She snapped her eyes to his. "Think about it. Hightower is what? Sixty? Seventy? Harlan Grandison seems to have his days numbered. I'd wager another two aren't far from it either. Whent's younger but barely; mid-fifties. Selmy is nine-and-thirty. Gaunt's in his thirties. That's an old Kingsguard on average, Niece."
Air vanished from Elia, and she gripped the wooden edge. Jagged rock smoothed when they entered the bay. The eastern side of the Red Keep's walls ran along the coastal cliff. Movement shone in several places.
"Understand why he's worried?"
She swallowed with a tightened throat. It hadn't occurred to her. "Yes. It makes sense. I should have realised, Uncle. I'm sorry," she said demurely, curling her shoulders.
"Don't you do that, Elia Nymeros Martell." The boat slowed, and Uncle Lewyn put the oars down. "You were distracted, and I caught how those ladies spoke to you. They dealt cruel falsehoods." He took her hands, and she met his fierce gaze. "Slender and olive skin doesn't make you unattractive. Different, yes. Ugly, no. Understood?" His eyes softened while he squeezed her hands.
Elia nodded. "If I hear something frequently, it grows ever difficult to doubt."
Uncle Lewyn sighed and thumbed her palms. "Jealous women, insecure women, will say what they must to make themselves feel superior. The same horseshit happened with your mother here. Ignore it. You have the traits of the Rhoynar. Those ladies do not. Different beauty scares them because different draws attention. Didn't you see the men?"
A wave within her mind washed over her, and she shook her head.
Uncle Lewyn smiled and took up the oars again. "I watched over you, and you, Elia, drew men's eyes. Some eyes lingered with appreciation. That is no lie."
She smiled and lifted her head a little. He gave her a nod and leaned back each time he rowed. Finally, the rocking lessened, and she relaxed, releasing her grip on the boat. "That comforts me greatly, but I must ask. Where are we going?"
"Where the smell is easiest to bear. Just beyond where it first struck me," Uncle said with a sly smile, much like Oberyn when up to mischief. Her uncle had taught Oberyn how to fight. Unfortunately, the last time she saw her brother was years ago. But he'd returned to Westeros recently, so she smiled. Ahead of Oberyn, his ship arrived at Sunspear with a gorgeous dress she profusely wished to thank him for. She wore it now; its style flattered her body.
Uncle brought them to shore. Rocks and a treeline concealed the location. However, there sat another rowboat, a sheer silk dress inside, a Dornish dress. She faced her uncle. "What's going on? That dress looks like Freya's."
He grinned. "That's because it is."
Elia blinked but shook her head. "I should have known that business of Freya's turning stomach was nonsense."
Uncle Lewyn laughed and pulled the boat further onto the sand.
"Lover?" asked Freya's voice with an echo from the left. "Is that you?"
"Aye!" He turned to Elia. "She does hate the smell, but her belly was horseshit." He threw the anchor onto the sand. "Sounds like she's found a perfect campsite. The smell is weak here."
Elia ventured rightward. She would avoid the left for now. "I'll take a look around, Uncle." A chuckle came from her uncle, and she went on. She'd rather have some distance between her and the probable cave.
Since they'd reached shore, the sunlight had weakened, and the sky darkened. However, she explored and encountered a path of rocky steps and climbed. Above stood the Red Keep's walls, but trees surrounded her. At the top shone a closed metal gate, but she wanted to avoid alerting any guards. Going back down, a similar path sloped in another direction.
At the bottom of it sat a flat floor of stone and mortar, with a short drop into the water from stone high enough for comfortable sitting. The last time she'd swum was long ago, but Elia took this opportunity to enjoy the water. A glance revealed her solitude in the failing light, and she sat on the edge to listen. Leaves softly rustled, and the water rippled towards her.
Alone, in darkness but armed, Elia only needed to scream for her uncle to hear. However, proceeding without at least telling him was foolish, so she quickly returned to let him know from the mouth of Freya's cave.
"Alright, Elia," he said, tossing a sheathed knife to the mouth of the cave. "I'll be closer than you think, but strap on my knife."
Upon her return, she waited a moment, but all sounds were of leaves and water. Swimming in a dress invited trouble, and she wore Oberyn's gift. Then, wearing Uncle Lewyn's knife, she shed everything but her smallclothes before lowering herself into the moonlit water. Anything underwater was invisible; rock, vegetation, possibly lost possessions from previous swimmers.
The water's chill shocked her body, but minutes later, it faded away. She eased into the sea's ebb and flow. Water dribbled down her shoulders and arms. Over her shoulder, the stone floor stood further away than Elia anticipated. Her toes skimmed the seabed beneath.
With a silent stroke, unless her feet broke the surface by accident, Elia barely made a splash. Nearing the stone floor, Elia squinted at a descending silhouette where metal clinked. Then, carefully, she changed direction towards her uncle's boat and hid behind a jutting rock. Still and watchful, she waited until the moonlight on silver disappeared.
Swimming the remaining distance to Freya's cave, Elia stayed hidden, and the silver reappeared. Firelight shone on the person's face, and it was Uncle Lewyn, the scabbard on his swordbelt shining while he returned to the cave.
Abandoning her worry, Elia kicked at ease with the waves' wash and rustling trees. There was a way to go, but she had time now.
Elia drew near, but the rhythm of the water broke. She grabbed an edge of the rock and kept still, searching the water's surface for clues of where or what it was. A suit of armour walked away up to the Red Keep on the rocky steps with a torch. No one would jump into the sea wearing mail and a suit of armour. Throwing something away made more sense.
The armoured man and his torch disappeared, so Elia slowly approached the stone surface. Something drifted out to sea. Flowers. A wreath of flowers. With an exhale, she leaned against the low stone wall and counted the slowing beats of her heart. There was a rocky perch beneath the water, so she sat hidden while the waves ran over her skin. Water further out to sea rippled like messed bedsheets in the moonlight.
The sea was peaceful and calm, almost a sentient being that ran along her skin with every wave. A smile tugged on her lips in the silence.
A series of light steps broke the quiet, and Elia snapped her eyes open. She grasped her knife's wet hilt in the dark and kept still. Movement draws attention. Her eyes followed the noise, and someone, a man, dove out to deeper water from where she'd climbed in before. She stayed hidden. Leaving before they could go further out would give her presence away.
A head emerged a fair way out, and its pale hair shone in the moonlight. Regardless, she checked the pathway. Empty. She pulled herself out and huddled near her dress but paused when silver on the stone floor caught Elia's eye. It was a scabbard the length of a man. She stole a glance out to sea, and they still swam further out. Her ears pricked at footsteps on the rock. She had no time and lowered herself back into the sea.
Elia hid behind a corner and refused to peek. It could get her caught. Discarded dresses are easily dismissed as a tryst earlier in the day. The steps stopped near the middle of the floor. "Hmm, who do you belong to?" a man mumbled. Metal scratched metal, followed by a chuckle, her uncle's chuckle. "Ah. I won't interrupt then." The leather steps retreated and fell silent.
An itch to find out stirred and Elia swam where she could get out. The sword hadn't been sheathed again, and the blade was milk-white. A complete set of male clothes lay here. She glanced at her dress; it was Dornish but in a bundle that didn't give it away.
Splashes neared, and Elia hurried to the corner and lowered herself into the water to think privately. Elia had enough time for dressing but hid in a nice alcove where she could think things through. She hadn't planned for this. Leaving without a word could give him the wrong idea. Her family had caused this man grief and self-doubt with their interference; she won't cause more. He didn't deserve it.
Her heart fluttered, but her mind was clear; Elia relaxed in her little alcove. If her instincts told her to think instead of fleeing, she had nothing to fear. Heart still quick, she emerged from the nook and sat on the underwater rock perch. A head of silver was swimming back, and she took a breath. She'd fussed over a falling dress near him, but Arthur had helped her like a decent man without exploiting the matter.
A lady from any kingdom other than Dorne would be horrified by what she was doing. If she ever needed to argue about it, she had a knife, and a pitch-black sea covered her. That wouldn't satisfy most women, but Dorne was less frigid when it came to skin; heat sometimes made layers impractical. That resulted in more brazen behaviour from typical ladies of her kingdom.
Nerves gathered in her belly the closer he swam back, but she slowly inhaled and released. Arthur took a breath and stopped when his eyes landed on her. His mouth slackened. "Elia?"
"Hello, Arthur." His stop made the water ripple around her shoulders. Then, with a push off from the rock, Elia kept herself afloat with her hands. "I had no idea who you were at first."
He blinked. "How long…? That dress-"
"Is mine," she finished with a nod. "My uncle knows I'm here. And that you are too. He knows I'm safe." Elia found a place where she could touch the seabed with her feet. "Freya's camping in a cave nearby. Does anyone know you're out here?"
He nodded and followed her example on the seabed; a key rested against the hollow of his neck while water trickled down his chest. "A guard gave me a key for the gate, but just him. He got fed up watching me pace in the godswood. Alijah asked that I stay out of sight while he finds out if I got too much attention in that spar."
Elia removed the knife from her arm and set it on the low wall. "Many of the Kingsguard are becoming rather old. It makes sense that he worries." She rested a hand on his shoulders. "Neither of us wants that for you. You don't want it either."
Arthur shook his head and stroked her cheek with his thumb. "I don't," he murmured, and calloused fingers ran behind her ear. She leaned into it, skin sparking beneath his touch and making her sigh.
Elia's hands curled where they rested on his shoulders. Lifting her eyes to his, she bit Arthur's bottom lip and let go, pulling away but didn't get far. It was smooth, languid and gentle. She cupped his cheek, and his hands buried into her hair. A hum escaped her, and Elia's eyes slid shut, falling into a deep and dizzying abyss. Nothing else mattered. His firm chest gave her steady support, strength beneath her touch. She caught her breath, and strong yet gentle fingers swept a hot trail on her neck that stopped at the base. A peck on her nose made Elia blink.
Arthur tucked a wet strand behind her ear, giving a soft smile. "I may be Dornish, but I had to stop," he said and stepped back. "I don't want to push you, Elia."
It was sweet, and she rested a hand on his cheek. A kiss here and like that was more than her imagination had conjured. She'd taken a leap of faith. "Thank you," she murmured and settled against him. Slow arms wrapped around her in the night's darkness.