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The Tower of the Hand buzzed with urgent whispers as the small council convened in emergency session. Grand Maester Pycelle sat hunched over his scrolls, quill scratching frantically as he documented the King's condition. Lord Owen Merryweather, the current Hand, wrung his hands nervously as he tried to maintain order.
"The King has been... unresponsive for nearly two hours," Pycelle reported, his voice trembling slightly. "His body functions normally, but his mind appears trapped in some manner of stupor."
"And this began immediately after the Northern boy refused his offer?" Lord Merryweather's voice quavered with uncertainty. As Hand, such matters fell to him, but he had never faced anything like this.
"The timing is... curious," admitted Lord Varys, his soft hands folded within his sleeves. "Young Arthur Snow displayed remarkable composure during his refusal. Most would have trembled before our King's wrath."
Prince Rhaegar shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "The boy showed no fear. Even when the goldcloaks moved against him, he stood perfectly still. As if he knew..." He trailed off, unwilling to voice the treasonous thought.
"As if he knew the King would not harm him," Lord Varys finished softly, his voice carrying dangerous implications. "Or perhaps... could not."
The small council exchanged uneasy glances. The implication hung heavy in the air—had this Northern bastard somehow influenced their King?
Meanwhile, in the Great Sept of Baelor, the High Septon received a different kind of report from one of his most trusted septons, a thin man whose eyes held the fervor of true faith.
"The boy moved like water, Your High Holiness," the septon whispered urgently. "Sir Jaime Lannister—the finest sword in the realm—could not even touch him. And when he stared at the King... there was something unholy in that gaze."
The High Septon's weathered fingers drummed against the marble altar. "You speak of dark arts, brother?"
"I speak of what I witnessed. The King fell into unnatural stillness the moment after their eyes met. No mortal boy should possess such power." The septon's voice dropped lower. "The Faith must be warned. There are forces at work here that go beyond mere swordplay."
Across King's Landing, in taverns and brothels, on docks and in market squares, whispers spread like wildfire. The serving girls spoke of a Northern bastard who had humiliated a Kingsguard. The merchants told of a boy who had refused the Iron Throne itself. The goldcloaks muttered about unnatural stillness and eyes that held secrets older than the Seven Kingdoms.
By evening, ravens had taken flight from a dozen different towers.
In Casterly Rock, Tywin Lannister's spies sent urgent word of his son's humiliating defeat and the King's strange affliction. The Old Lion's response would be swift and calculating—such a warrior could be either a valuable asset or a dangerous threat. Ravens flew from the Rock to every major bannerman, carrying news of this Northern bastard's martial prowess.
In Storm's End, Robert Baratheon would soon learn of a Northern warrior whose skill might rival his own legendary strength. Ravens flew north to the Eyrie, where Lord Jon Arryn would read with growing concern of political instability in the capital.
Most significantly, a raven winged its way toward Winterfell, carrying news that would reach Lord Rickard Stark within days. His bastard nephew had not only reached King's Landing safely but had apparently turned the court on its head.
In Oldtown, the Citadel's agents prepared their own missives. The Maesters had long memories and longer concerns about powers that defied natural explanation.
Even across the narrow sea, whispers would eventually reach the exiled Targaryens. A Northern boy with impossible skill had caught their usurper's attention—such news demanded consideration.
As the sun set over the Red Keep, Arthur Snow sat in his chambers, apparently at peace while the realm buzzed with speculation about his actions. A soft knock interrupted his meditation.
"Enter," he called, unsurprised when the door opened to reveal the distinctive white cloak and dark features of Ser Arthur Dayne.
The Sword of the Morning stepped inside, his hand resting casually on Dawn's pommel. But Arthur Snow could see the tension in those dark eyes, the barely controlled confusion that clouded the knight's usually serene expression.
"We need to speak," Dayne said simply.
Arthur gestured to a chair, but the knight remained standing, clearly agitated.
"Since the moment I first saw you, Dawn has... responded," Dayne began carefully. "The blade grows warm at your presence. It hums with an energy I've never felt before. Today, during your duel with Jaime, the sensation was almost overwhelming."
Arthur Snow studied the legendary knight with interest. "And what do you make of this... response?"
"I don't know," Dayne admitted, frustration bleeding into his voice. "Dawn was forged from a fallen star, its metal unlike anything else in this world. For it to react so strongly to you..." He paused, searching for words. "What are you, Arthur Snow?"
"A bastard from the North," Arthur replied mildly. "Nothing more."
"Lies." The word came out harder than Dayne had intended. "No mere bastard moves as you do. No common-born boy stares down the King of the Seven Kingdoms without flinching. And no ordinary warrior causes my blade to sing in its sheath."
Arthur Snow rose slowly, his grey eyes meeting Dayne's dark gaze. For a moment, the two men studied each other in silence.
"You want answers," Arthur said finally.
"I do."
"Then let me propose something." Arthur's voice carried a hint of amusement. "A duel. You and I, steel against steel. If you win, I'll tell you what you wish to know about the... peculiarities you've observed."
Dayne's eyes narrowed. "And if you win?"
Arthur smiled, and for the first time since entering the capital, it was not entirely pleasant. "If I win, you give me Dawn."
The request hit Dayne like a physical blow. Dawn was his birthright, his identity, the blade that defined him among the greatest knights of the realm.
"In exchange," Arthur continued, "I'll give you a Valyrian steel sword of my own. One that has tasted blood and glory in battles you cannot imagine."
Dayne's hand tightened on Dawn's hilt. The blade's humming grew more pronounced, as if responding to the tension between them.
"You ask for my soul," Dayne said quietly.
"I ask for a blade that calls to something within me, just as it calls to you," Arthur replied. "The question is—are you brave enough to risk everything for the answers you seek?"
The Sword of the Morning stood in silence for a long moment, weighing the impossible choice before him. Outside, King's Landing continued its whispered speculation about the strange events of the day, unaware that an even stranger bargain was being struck in the chambers of a Northern bastard.
Finally, Arthur Dayne nodded.
"When?" he asked.
Arthur Snow's smile widened. "Tomorrow at dawn. How fitting."