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The silence stretched like a taut bowstring, ready to snap. Arthur Snow's gaze swept across the courtyard—the expectant faces, the shifting nobles, the Kingsguard standing at attention. Then his eyes settled on King Aerys, meeting those violet orbs that burned with manic intensity.
"No."
The word fell like a stone into still water, sending ripples of shock through the assembled court. Gasps echoed off the courtyard walls. Someone dropped a goblet, the metallic clatter unnaturally loud in the sudden hush.
The reaction was immediate and explosive.
"Insolent boy!" Sir Gerold Hightower's hand moved to his sword hilt, his weathered face flushing with indignation. "You dare refuse your King?"
The goldcloaks stepped forward as one, spears lowering toward Arthur. Their captain's voice cracked like a whip: "Stand down, Northern bastard, or face the crown's justice!"
Steel began to sing from sheaths around the courtyard. The Kingsguard moved with practiced precision, forming a loose circle. Arthur Dayne's hand rested on Dawn's pommel, his dark eyes calculating. Even young Jaime, still smarting from his defeat, looked ready to draw steel despite his earlier humbling.
But Arthur Snow remained perfectly still.
He stood in the center of the growing storm of outrage, arms at his sides, breathing slow and measured. No fear flickered across his features. No defiance twisted his expression. He simply... was. Like a mountain facing the wind—immovable, eternal, untouchable.
His eyes never left the King's.
And in that gaze, something passed between them. Something the court could not see, could not understand. For three heartbeats, the world seemed to hold its breath.
Then King Aerys raised his hand.
"Stop."
The command was soft, almost conversational, but it cut through the tension like Dawn through silk. The goldcloaks froze mid-step. The Kingsguard's hands stilled on their weapons. Even the whispers died.
Aerys waved his hand with lazy indifference, as though dismissing servants after a mundane meal. "Our warrior is tired. Send him back to his quarters."
The court exchanged bewildered glances. Queen Rhaella's brow furrowed in confusion. Prince Rhaegar stepped forward slightly, concern flickering in his violet eyes. This was not the King they knew—not the man who had burned lords alive for lesser slights than this.
"Your Grace," Sir Gerold began carefully, "surely such defiance cannot—"
"I said he is tired." Aerys' voice carried that dangerous edge that courtiers had learned to fear, the one that preceded screaming fits and demands for wildfire. "See that he rests."
Arthur inclined his head in the slightest of bows—more acknowledgment than respect. Then he turned and walked away, his steps unhurried, his posture relaxed. The crowd parted before him like water before a ship's prow.
Only when he had disappeared through the archway leading to the guest quarters did the court dare to breathe again.
"What just happened?" Elia Martell whispered to her husband, but Prince Rhaegar only shook his head, his own expression troubled.
Young Viserys tugged at his mother's sleeve. "Why didn't father punish him, mother? He said no to the King!"
Queen Rhaella had no answer.
The King stood motionless on the dais, staring at the space where Arthur Snow had been. His face was blank, almost serene—a stark contrast to the manic energy that usually consumed him. His breathing was slow and steady. His hands hung loose at his sides.
The seconds stretched.
Ten heartbeats. Twenty. Thirty.
"Your Grace?" Sir Gerold approached cautiously. "Are you well?"
No response. The King's eyes remained fixed on empty air, unblinking.
"Father?" Prince Rhaegar stepped closer, genuine worry replacing political caution. "Father, what's wrong?"
Still nothing.
It was Queen Rhaella who first understood something was deeply amiss. "Fetch Grand Maester Pycelle," she commanded, her voice sharp with urgency. "Now!"
The court erupted into whispered speculation as servants scattered to obey. Some suggested the King had suffered a fit of some kind. Others wondered if he'd been struck by divine judgment for his cruelties. A few brave souls murmured about poison, though none could say when it might have been administered.
When Pycelle arrived, wheezing and clutching his chain of office, he found the King exactly as the others had left him—standing perfectly still, eyes vacant, breathing shallow but regular.
"Curious," the Grand Maester muttered, checking the King's pulse, peering into his eyes, testing his reflexes. "His body shows no signs of distress, yet his mind appears... elsewhere."
"Will he recover?" the Queen asked quietly.
Pycelle stroked his white beard, uncertainty creasing his aged features. "I... cannot say, Your Grace. I have never seen its like. It is as though his thoughts have been... interrupted. Frozen in a moment of time."
As the court fussed and worried around their motionless King, none noticed the small, satisfied smile that had briefly crossed Arthur Snow's lips as he'd walked away.
In his chambers, Arthur sat in quiet meditation, reflecting on the technique he had just employed—a skill learned in another life, from a wandering warrior whose ambitions had exceeded his wisdom. The Flow Disruption technique was subtle, requiring precise timing and an understanding of mental energy that few possessed.
The effect would pass soon enough. The King would return to himself with little memory of the gap, perhaps attributing it to fatigue or distraction. But the message had been sent and received.
Some offers, even from kings, were not meant to be accepted.
Arthur opened his eyes and gazed out the window toward the setting sun. His path lay elsewhere, beyond the reach of crowns and thrones. The ancient shard called to him still, and there were mysteries in the North that demanded his attention.
Let the court whisper and wonder. Let them craft their theories and explanations.
The truth would remain his alone.