"Yield, Baratheon."

Arthur awaited his opponent's reply. The stormlord towered over him, warhammer raised high overhead, but the Sword of the Morning held his blade taut against his opponent's gorget, poised to pierce his throat. Even with the finest of armors, few men would have risked such a blow, and had Arthur wielded Dawn, Robert Baratheon would have met his end.

None knew this better than the young stag, who glowered at the Dornish knight, his face etched with frustration and fury as Arthur stared back, unmoved.

"Damn your eyes, Dayne," he spat. Baratheon stepped back and lowered his hammer. Arthur likewise withdrew, finding the insult had been more courtesy than he had expected from his foe.

Without exchanging further pleasantries, the antlered lord stomped off the field. His defeat afforded Arthur a moment to reflect on the duel as his breathing steadied and body eased. The heir of Storm's End had proven himself worthy of his Durrandon and Targaryen blood. Despite sustaining injuries against Greatjon Umber, he had pressed Arthur like few men he could recall, leaving the Dornish knight uncertain of victory.

But for all his battle lust and bluster, the young stag had attacked Arthur with the intent to humble rather than harm, proof that he knew nothing of Rhaegar's visit to his betrothed. The Sword of the Morning was unsurprised: Eddard Stark would not have confided in his foster brother, not when his words endangered Lady Lyanna's prospects and honor. Rhaegar had left House Stark with little recourse, and though their silence served his prince's cause, Arthur was glad Lady Lyanna had been spared further indignity.

Selfishly, his thoughts turned to Ashara, whose own match had been imperiled by Rhaegar's actions. Having played his part in their troubles, Arthur knew the Starks were far less inclined to see Eddard and Ashara wed. But the wolves of Winterfell could not be seen abandoning so public a courtship, not without incurring scrutiny that they could ill afford.

The Starks would doubtlessly bleed House Dayne dry when it came time to discuss the dowry, but Arthur could not bring himself to care. Marriage to the Wolf Knight would free Ashara from the snakepit that was King's Landing, the dangers that lurked within, and the consequences of his own failings.

Duty was a burden the Daynes knew well, bound to service by oaths if not by chains. The Sword of the Morning would at least see his sister freed from hers with honor intact.


As the melee devolved into a series of duels, Arthur pressed onward. One by one, famed knights challenged him, only to be found wanting. Forty men turned to twenty, then twenty became ten.

Soon, only five men remained, falling to four after Tytos Blackwood bested Tygett Lannister.

The lion's defeat came as some surprise, but the young riverlord had distinguished himself during the melee. Bullying his way to the front of the Crownlands contingent, the Lord of Raventree Hall had led the charge against his fellow rivermen and unseated his rival, Jonos Bracken. Afoot, Tytos had proved himself no less formidable, but faced with the great warriors who remained afield, his qualities fell short.

The young Lord of Raventree Hall found himself outmatched, but he approached Arthur all the same, refusing to turn heel in the face of certain defeat. The Sword of the Morning honored his courage by raising his blade.

The duel ended quickly: a deft parry broke the momentum of Tytos' advance, a swift strike opened his guard, and a second forced the sword from his hand. Saluting the young riverman, Arthur turned in time to see Brandon Stark overwhelm Yohn Royce with brutal, hammering blows. The veteran knight weathered the assault as best he could, until a vicious kick drove the air from his lungs, sending Bronze Yohn staggering into the dirt.

The Lord of Runestone fell on his back, struggling for breath while his opponent held a blade over his eyes.

"I yield," the valeman gasped, and Arthur appreciated his exhaustion even from afar. He watched as the Northern Blade lowered his sword and helped the bronze lord to his feet.

"Haven't been struck like that since I was a squire," Yohn Royce huffed, lifting his visor to acknowledge the younger man. "Lord Stark must be blessed by the gods to have you and Eddard for sons."

Mirroring the aged warrior, Brandon removed his helm in a show of respect.

"We had the fortune of learning under great men," he replied, voice measured and modest despite his savage display. "Thank you for overseeing my brother's instruction, Lord Royce."

Even in defeat, the Lord of Runestone warmed at the praise. He grasped the northman's shoulder and wished him luck before taking his leave.

The Sword of the Morning and Northern Blade stood alone on the field. Not a voice could be heard as the heir of Winterfell turned to face his enemy.

Arthur stepped forward, ready to salute his opponent, only for Brandon to raise his helm and toss it aside. Cheers arose from the crowd who mistook his actions for showmanship, leaving Arthur no choice but to discard his own.

The Knight of Starfall locked eyes with the heir of Winterfell, who glared back as though Arthur were the source of all the world's ills. No doubt he thought Arthur the lowest of men, believing he had known Rhaegar's intentions when they left the royal apartments days ago and had done nothing to dissuade his prince from their destination upon learning the truth.

There was much he wished to say, but Arthur held his tongue. Instead, he raised his greatsword and accepted the hate that was his due.


Brandon had imagined himself approaching Ebbin Wyl, the coward who had tried to kill his brother. He envisioned himself drawing a rondel dagger and driving it through Ebbin's knee, twisting the blade to pry the joint apart amidst the Dornishman's screams. Brandon saw himself returning the coward to Dorne crippled and lame, granting him the chance to find his courage and venture into the desert like a greybeard into the snow, sparing his kin the burden and indignity of his care.

The heir of Winterfell knew himself capable of such cruelty, of maiming a man and calling it justice. Perhaps that was why he had allowed the Whents to drag Ebbin Wyl away, disgraced but unharmed, destined for Harrenhal's dungeons and the Wall thereafter.

But when Brandon's gaze upon Arthur Dayne, the brutal fantasy returned in force, accompanied by memories equally woeful and bitter. He recalled the wavering smile Lyanna had worn hours ago when she chose to brave the Realm's scrutiny, determined to silence the rumors her brothers had kept at bay. Brandon remembered the look of dejection on Benjen's face as his youngest brother sat alone at night, knees drawn to his chest, old enough to realize his family's plight yet too young to help.

As the scenes played out behind his eyes, Brandon charged the Sword of the Morning. Arthur Dayne did not deserve to know his thoughts, but the fool would learn his pain once Brandon carved it into his flesh.


The Sword of the Morning swept his blade in a great arc, and the Northern Blade struck back with savage grace. Thrice, they clashed, each accompanied by a deafening sound as the impact threatened to warp the blades in their hands. Arthur deflected a blow meant for his head, a deft turn of his wrists locking Brandon's sword in place. Castle-forged steel screeched as the Sword of the Morning and Northern Blade pressed into the bind, shifting leverage and footing as they vied for control.

The reach of Arthur's greatsword proved no advantage as Brandon angled a thrust at his groin, only for the knight to parry the blow and bypass his guard. Turning his sword into a lance, Arthur drove the point into the exposed mail of Brandon's armor, intent on piercing his arm and ending the duel. The Northern Blade made no attempt to evade as he pivoted into the attack, forcing Arthur's greatsword to glance off his cuirass and his opponent to overreach. Instincts alone saved Arthur's life as Brandon slashed across his face, the blade drawing near enough to cast a shadow over his eyes.

The Sword of the Morning withdrew while the Northern Blade stood his ground. Spectators roared from the battlements, voices alight with every emotion from excitement to horror. Their cries went unheeded as Arthur steadied his breathing and heart.

His hands ached for Dawn, for Brandon Stark was near as strong as Robert Baratheon and twice as fast. Faced with such a foe, Arthur fully understood how the Starks of old had brought the North to heel. Not since facing Barristan Selmy had the Dornish knight needed his family's blade to secure victory.

The Northern Blade lived up to his name, and the thought brought Arthur little comfort, for while Eddard Stark had shown himself a true knight–his conduct during the melee proving his character beyond reproach–Brandon Stark was not his brother.

Where Eddard stood as steadfast as the Wall at the edge of the Realm, the heir of Winterfell struck like a baleful squall. Without a lance, he had unhorsed the likes of Jon Connington and Garth Hightower with worrying ease; on foot, he had brutalized men of the Crownlands and Dorne with a fervor bordering zeal.

Yet, for all that he breathed violence, the heir of Winterfell had deferred to the Lord of Runestone with startling humility and had handled his brother's would-be killer with astonishing restraint, betraying a discipline more dangerous than the sum of his skill. That alone made Arthur wary.

Few would believe it, but the Sword of the Morning had improved markedly since joining the Kingsguard, benefiting from Barristan Selmy's personal instruction. Time and again, the legendary knight had forced Arthur to confront the rare mistakes in his bladework, errors lesser men had been unable to exploit. Under Barristan's guidance, the Sword of the Morning had polished his skills to their zenith, and as Arthur fought the Northern Blade, he recognized the same refinement in Brandon's savage form.

Pieces fell into place as Arthur uncovered the answer to a question he had never asked. The Sword of the Morning could no longer deny the truth before his eyes: there was a hidden master in the North, one who rivaled Ser Barriston in skill, if not in deed.

The revelation accompanied a startling lack of surprise, for the winterlands were the largest and most insular of the Seven Kingdoms, a desolate and barren waste where even the most exceptional of talents could languish in obscurity amidst decades of peace.

But that was not what mattered now. The prince must be informed. Whoever taught the Northern Blade must be found and brought into the fold, for while Arthur and his sworn brothers were prepared to lay down their lives, they needed allies to defend the Realm from the trials ahead.

The barest tremor ran down Arthur's blade as he recalled Rhaegar's words when he confided his dreams of song and prophecy. Of the coming night and the promised prince. Of salt and smoke, ice and fire.

Arthur dearly wished his prince was mistaken, yet within his heart, Rhaegar's words rung terrible and true. History has shown the perils of dismissing a dragon's dreams: Mighty Valyria had mocked Daenys the Dreamer when she foresaw the Doom. Now, the Freehold was no more. Arthur would not allow the same fate to befall the Seven Kingdoms.

As the Northern Blade drew near, the Dornish knight thought back to his prince–the same prince who had given him hope after Arthur pledged himself to a king, only to service a monster. Even now, here in Harrenhal, Arthur would close his eyes and find himself standing guard outside the royal bedchamber, listening as the king laughed and queen screamed, unable to intervene without blackening his name and marking his family for death. Rhaegar Targaryen had promised him–promised them all–an end to the nightmares.

The Sword of the Morning remembered his prince, recalled his oath as a Kingsguard knight, and willed his weary body forward.


From the battlements of the greatest castle Westeros had ever known, a summer knight clad in gleaming armor battled a winter warrior cloaked in shadows. The figures moved as though in a dance, reciting a routine only they could follow, and the Realm bore witness to a duel unlike any in all its history.

The knight moved with the swiftness of windswept sand, every strike flowing seamlessly into the next. With every twist and turn, his blade traced the elegant lines of his form, carving graceful arcs through the warm, southern air. His opponent struck back like an icy tempest, every blow abrupt, brutal, and deliberate, embodying the harsh beauty of a barren land where life defied the world's every attempt to lay it low.

The warriors exchanged killing blows as though they were words, standing like figures from a bygone age when the great houses were yet unnamed and the world still young.

Time lost meaning as the two men gained and lost ground with every exchange. In another life, history would have remembered the summer knight as the greatest legend to wield a blade, his memory lingering in the minds of men long after his lifeblood watered the sands of Dorne. Even now, he proved himself the preeminent swordsman of his time, fighting with flawless technique and form.

But his opponent answered with a strength without limit or end, honed by a teacher capable of that and more. Against such a force, even the knight faltered and fell.


The heir of Winterfell pinned Arthur to the ground. His blade pressed against Arthur's neck, the blunted edge barely held in place by the guard of the knight's sword. Not to be denied his prey, the northman leaned against the hilt of his blade, forming a wedge that forced Arthur's own sword into his chest. Even in the face of death, the knight refused to yield,

But just as his strength wavered, the Northern Blade withdrew.

Brandon rose to his feet, leaving his sword where it lay. He looked down at Arthur, daring the Dornish knight to stand. The provocation proved needless, for the victor was never in doubt.

The Sword of the Morning lifted himself from the dirt only to kneel, and the melee of Harrenhal came to an end.

Brandon half-listened as the Whents proclaimed his victory. The thrum of his heart drowned out the roar of the crowd and his hands still itched for a blade. He had been prepared to maim Arthur Dayne–kill him, even–and the ensuing scorn would have fallen from him like rain. The thought of Lord Fairchild's disapproval and fear for Ned's happiness had stayed his hand, but even now, his blood simmered with lingering regret.

Casting all thoughts of the Dornishman aside, the heir of Winterfell approached the battlements and knelt before the royal box. Raising his head to regard the king, Brandon thought it a cruel joke that seven kingdoms owed allegiance to a crown-wearing fool.

Aerys Targaryen was a gaunt specter of a man, his skeletal frame dwarfed by his high-backed throne. Curtains of oily, matted hair fell past his shoulders, pooling in his lap in utter disarray. Scabs and near-healed cuts marred every patch of pallid skin visible beneath his satin robes. Long, yellowed nails adorned his hands like talons, desperately clawing at his throne as though clinging to any proof of his power and claim.

The Targaryen king was the very image of a vagrant wrapped in royal garb, a wretched creature whose ever-shifting eyes betrayed unending fear and cruelty. And yet, none dared to speak when the king rose from his throne.

"Well fought, well fought!"

Amidst the suffocating silence, Brandon heard the king's every word, his tone amused yet laced with anger, reminding Brandon of a boy whose toy had been damaged, caring little for his possessions, only that they were his.

"Yes, yes, well done indeed!"

Aerys raised his hands, long nails raking together as he clapped in applause. The surrounding lords hurried to follow his example.

"You fought well, Stark!" the king praised again, the words quickly losing worth as they were dispensed like coins, "Or, at the very least, you fought better."

The king's eyes swept over him, landing on Dayne several steps away. As he studied his knight, Aerys' amusement shifted to disdain, but that too turned quickly to disinterest, and Brandon found himself again suffering the king's attention.

"That Dornishman who struck your brother's horse," Aerys drawled, savoring every word with a levity that pricked at Brandon's ears and anger, "I had thought to see him burn, but I chose to see what you might do with him."

Aery's eyes narrowed, a sneer thinning his lips as all humor fell from his face.

"You've disappointed me in that regard, Stark."

The Targaryen king demanded an answer. In another life, Brandon might have wavered under Aery's gaze. But the heir of Winterfell had spent years under the tutelage of a man with starlit eyes, a force of nature who even now made Brandon feel like a child playing at knighthood. When compared to the Hunter, Aerys Targaryen fell painfully short, and no number of crowns or kingdoms could make up the difference.

The Northern Blade held the king's graze.

"He was unworthy prey, Your Grace."

For a moment, Aerys stood still, stunned the northman had dared express anything save regret. His eyes darted wildly as he weighed Brandon's words, deciding whether they warranted punishment. Then, as the silence grew unbearable, Aerys threw his head back and laughed.

"Yes, yes! You may be right in that regard, yes!" Delight danced in Aerys' eyes, and it was clear that the king was speaking for his own amusement. "Yes, it seems Rickard has reared a fierce beast indeed!"

The Targaryen curled an outstretched hand into a fist, grasping an unseen chain.

"And who better than I to hold its leash?"

None were prepared when Aerys unfurled his hand, directing a gnarled finger at Brandon.

"Kneel, Brandon Stark!" he shouted as though the young warrior were not already on one knee. "You have proven yourself the finest blade in the Realm! Better, yes, than my own Kingsguard. But I would see that changed! Kneel, Brandon Stark! Swear to me, and I will see you honored with a white cloak!"

The lords and ladies of the Realm stood stunned by his declaration. Brandon watched, almost amused as many struggled to mask their shock, whispering to their fellows while the men of the North roared in outrage, the massive form of Greatjon Umber prominent amongst the riled lords. Their protests fell on deaf ears as Aerys awaited an answer, uncaring that Brandon was no knight, that his induction would add an eighth blade to the seven-manned order and rob the Warden of the North of his presumed heir.

The eldest scion of Winterfell bit back a laugh.

"I accept," he proclaimed, his answer sapping the fight from his fellow northmen. "I only implore your benevolence, Your Grace."

Aerys' maddening smile slipped the moment Brandon made his request.

"Speak," the king dared, his voice echoing both challenge and command.

Brandon made a show of bowing his head lower still. "Allow me a year to prepare my brother for his duties." The Northern Blade steeled his resolve, resisting the urge to look for his brother, thus shielding him from Aerys' gaze. "House Stark has kept faith with House Targaryen since the days of the Conquest. Not once have we wavered. Let me ensure Eddard serves you just the same."

The king studied his newest Kingsguard with wide, violet eyes, searching for any sign of deception. A gnarled hand rose to stroke his beard as the scabbed king made sense of his thoughts.

"Yes," he rasped at last, yellowed nails catching on the knots of his matted hair. He glanced at his Lord Hand, who had lost his own heir to the Kingsguard days ago, and smiled cruelly. "Yes, it would be my pleasure to grant so small a favor to so loyal a servant."

The kings stepped forward, issuing a decree for all to hear.

"Speak your vows now, Brandon Stark, and I grant you this boon."

Brandon bowed his head as though in ascent. He mimed the words Jaime Lannister had uttered days before, words House Targaryen had plundered from the ancient oaths of the Night's Watch. He recited the words, feigning a solemn dignity so the crowd would think him sincere.

"I swear to ward the king with all my strength, to give my blood for his.

I swear to obey His commands and keep His secrets.

I swear to defend His honor and serve at His pleasure.

I will never flee, nor falter in my duty.

I shall take no wife, hold no lands, and father no children.

I pledge to His Grace my life and honor, until the day that I die."


Brandon made his way back to the Stark apartments. None dared to congratulate him on his victory, and the rare servant scurried past with unnatural haste, fearing his anger. All the while, the Northern Blade fought back the smile that tugged at his lips and the laughter that welled in his throat, a difficult task when Aerys Targaryen seemed adamant on aiding House Stark in its designs against the Crown.

With the king's decree, Brandon could now leave the North without suspicion. Aerys had even spared him the inconvenience of a formal abdication. Instead, Ned would take his rightful place as Father's heir while marrying for love.

Brandon knew Father would be cross with them both: the future Lord of Winterfell had better prospects than a stony Dornishwoman, however storied her house or close her ties to the future queen. But Ashara Dayne had been a fine match when Ned was a second son, and the North knew Eddard would not stoop so low as to abandon her now that he was Father's heir.

The Northern houses would protest, but Father had bought enough goodwill to last several lifetimes. When the lords grumbled, they would do so in silence.

Hoster Tully would have no choice but to follow suit, for he could not be seen feuding with House Stark over the crime of abiding their king. The Lord of Riverrun was already wroth with Father after the warden delayed discussions of Brandon's betrothal years ago, citing the needs of his people amidst the long winter. Perhaps Father had hoped to avoid Hoster's scrutiny once Brandon left Westeros. Perhaps, he thought with a flare of guilt, the Warden of the North simply had not wanted to face the inevitable exile of his eldest son.

The former heir had every faith that Ned would make amends: the union between Riverrun and Winterfell would be postponed a generation, nothing more.

This was a victory for their family and the North. Brandon needed only to convince his brother of that fact.

Not bothering to knock, he barged into Ned's room. Having long removed his armor, the younger Stark sprung to his feet in an instant.

"You can't do this, Brandon!"

"Good evening to you as well, Ned," Brandon replied, settling comfortably on the desk beside his brother's bed. The concern in Ned's voice sparked a familiar mix of fondness and guilt. "That was a fine fight against the Red Viper."

Ned frowned at his poor attempt at humor.

"You have to talk to the king. Seek an audience," he insisted, speaking faster than his mind could follow, "Tell him you've changed your mind–"

"Changed my mind?" Brandon questioned, resisting the urge to arch his brow while repeating the words for emphasis. "I wasn't aware oaths could be so easily reversed."

Ned opened his mouth, desperate to argue, searching for a rebuttal he would never find.

"You can't join the Kingsguard, Brandon. You can't."

There was a shift in his bearing and a defeat in his voice that reminded Brandon of a child offering a prayer into the night, believing it would come true if he uttered it often enough. The sight weighed heavily on Brandon's heart.

"I don't intend to," he assured, voice growing stern when Ned looked to him in askance. "I did not suffer Lord Fairchild's instructions just to serve that fool of a king, never mind the prince who tried to ruin our sister."

Feeling his blood warm at the mere mention of the Targaryens, the Northern Blade stared out at the evening sky, waiting for his temper to settle and the bite of his words to subside.

"I'll follow our teacher when he returns to Yharnam," he said at last. "Have Father claim I was lost at sea. He wouldn't even have to lie."

Ned stared at him, his expression increasingly resigned.

"Winterfell is your seat," he insisted, clinging to the fundamental truths which had shaped his world–truths that had come undone over the course of a day.

Brandon resisted the urge to leave the room. He had stated his plans and spoken his mind. Were he to walk away, Ned would not follow. But he would be leaving Ned alone with his thoughts, believing that he had stolen his brother's seat. That was a prospect Brandon refused to entertain.

"I've broken guest rights."

He confessed the crime without pause or preamble. Ned stilled as though struck, and Brandon looked to the floor, unable to meet his brother's eyes.

"I've broken guest rights," he repeated, articulating each word with care, leaving no room for doubt. "The first time Lord Fairchild visited Winterfell, I thought him no different than any southron lord, there to mock Father by way of his wealth and courtesy." Once more, Ned gave no answer, too stunned to respond, and Brandon pressed on.

"I goaded him into a duel, even insulted Lady Evetta for good measure." Even now, Brandon wondered how he had survived that singular act of stupidity. "I fared as well as you might expect and, upon defeat, tried to stab him through the back. Didn't even manage to succeed."

His voice wavered, and the rest of the tale died in his throat. Brandon struggled to continue, finding little else to say. No words would lessen the weight of his crimes nor the magnitude of what Lord Fairchild had forgiven.

"Winterfell hasn't been mine for a long time."

The room fell to silence, deafening in the wake of his confession. The former heir endured the stillness without complaint, his mind and limbs tense with apprehension, well aware Ned could wound him in ways Dayne's blade never could.

The sound of shuffling forced Brandon to look up. He found Ned leaning against the opposing wall, his expression pensive and downcast. A hand lay against his chest, as though attempting to assuage an old, imagined wound. The younger Stark met his brother's gaze without rage or censure.

"I had promised myself, that when we returned to the Workshop, I would speak to Lord Fairchild," he offered. "I had meant to volunteer myself and become a Hunter in your stead."

Ned's words were not what Brandon had expected, and he felt compelled to speak his mind.

"Was this before you laid eyes on Ashara?"

The question, absurd as it was, caught both brothers by surprise. Brandon failed to suppress a snort when Ned's cheeks colored, and a flash of embarrassment passed his brother's eyes. Then, the laughter began in earnest. Ned's voice joined his own, a weak and weary sound, but one that Brandon clung to all the same.

TBC

Chapter Summary:

Blahhh! got off his ass and started writing again.

Author's Note:

It's been a while, everyone. There's been a lot of (good) changes happening in RL that have been keeping me busy, but things are finally settling down.

It didn't help that I was dreading this chapter for a while (not nearly as much as what I have coming down the pipeline, but still). After the Ned vs Oberyn fight, I wanted to make sure the climax of the melee was worth everyone's time.

Part of that meant painting the scene and understanding the characters/motivations at play, hence the Arthur Dayne POV. This is, of course, my interpretation of the Sword of the Morning. While I'm sure we have opinions regarding Rhaegar and co., my goal was to explore the characters and try to reconcile the well-regarded knight who brought an end to the Kingswood Brotherhood and the hot garbage that went down at the Tower of Joy. I tried to write a character that could be true to both.

As for Brandon, I wanted to show the fruits of his training, for good or ill. This chapter was a good reminder remind that a Hunter is not a knight, and the qualities that make for a good Hunter might be cause for some concern.

As described by a veteran:

"...You are a skilled hunter. Adept, merciless, half-cut with blood. As the best hunters are." - Djura, the Powder Keg Hunter

With that, I wanted to show that while Cyril's lessons have made Brandon more restrained, they have also made him more lethal. I wanted to duel between him and Arthur to reflect that element of danger. He may not be receiving magical blood transfusions, but Brandon is taking to standard Hunter's doctrine like a fish to water. Small wonder why he caught Cyril's eye.

We also see some of the ramifications of Brandon's spectacular display. By proving himself stronger than Arthur (and therefore the Kingsguard at large), Brandon painted himself as a threat. Like most despots (the paranoid schizophrenia probably isn't helping matters), Aerys' natural response was to press Brandon into service or see him permanently removed. Make no mistake, the Mad King was going to forced Brandon into the Kingsguard or execute him…for the crime of not joining the Kingsguard.

Additionally, Aerys agreeing to Brandon's temporary leave of absence might seem strange until you realize it's a direct insult to Tywin, whose own heir wasn't even been allowed to participate in the tourney. It's the little things that count.

Lastly, the discussion between Ned and Brandon was a long time coming. Hope I did it justice. We have Ashara's POV coming up.

As always, many thanks to KnightStar for his edits and feedback.

References:

1. Robert's "Damn your eyes, [Dayne]" curse was inspired by TheWiseTomato's A Soldier Adrift: Captain Westeros, whose Robert says the same thing in a similar context. Had a nice ring to it.

2. Unable to find a primary source for the Kingsguard oath, though we know Visenya Targaryen modeled the oath after those of the Night's Watch. Closest I came to the oath itself was a post on proboards(?), which I'm pretty sure is fanmade. Just citing my sources.