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Dawn broke over King's Landing with an unsettling stillness. In the Tower of the Hand, Lord Owen Merryweather paced before the great windows, wringing his hands as Grand Maester Pycelle delivered his morning report.
"The King remains unchanged, my lord Hand," Pycelle wheezed, his chain rattling with each labored breath. "His body shows no signs of distress, yet his mind... it is as if he sleeps with his eyes open. I fear his mental fortitude may have been weaker than we assumed."
Prince Rhaegar stood by the hearth, violet eyes distant with thought. Since yesterday's events, a theory had been taking shape in his mind—one that both terrified and intrigued him. The prophecies spoke of ice and fire joining, of a prince that was promised born from such a union. This Northern bastard embodied ice in every way—his composure, his origins, his very name. What if the fire needed to create the promised prince was not some distant flame, but his own Targaryen blood?
"My prince?" Merryweather's nervous voice interrupted his thoughts. "Your counsel would be... appreciated."
Rhaegar turned from the flames, decision crystallizing in his expression. "I believe we should speak with the boy. Not as interrogators, but as... potential allies. If he possesses abilities beyond the natural, we must understand their nature."
"You think him dangerous?" Pycelle asked, clutching his chains.
"I think him important," Rhaegar replied carefully. "The timing of his arrival, his impossible skill, the King's condition... these are not mere coincidences."
Within the hour, Prince Rhaegar made his way to the guest quarters, but he was not the first to seek audience with Arthur Snow that morning.
Lord Qarlton Chelsted, the Master of Coin, had arrived with ledgers under his arm and calculation in his eyes. "Lord Snow," he said with merchant's precision, "a man of your... talents should not lack for resources. The crown has uses for skilled individuals, and rewards them accordingly."
Arthur regarded the portly lord with polite interest. "And what manner of service would the crown require?"
"Nothing distasteful," Chelsted assured him. "Perhaps training some of our knights. Serving as an envoy to the northern lords. Your reputation alone would open doors that remain closed to lesser men. In return, lands, titles, gold—whatever a man might desire."
Before Arthur could respond, another visitor was announced. Lord Varys glided in with his characteristic soft footsteps, forcing Chelsted to step aside with barely concealed irritation.
"Young Snow," Varys purred, his pale hands folded within his sleeves. "The capital speaks of little else but your... performance yesterday. A man who can humble Ser Jaime and face the King's wrath without flinching... such a man could find himself with many friends in many places."
"And what do these friends desire in return?" Arthur asked, settling back in his chair with apparent ease.
"Knowledge," Varys replied simply. "Who doesn't wish to know the movements of the great lords? The whispers in northern halls? A trusted man in Winterfell could find himself richly rewarded for such... observations."
Arthur's grey eyes moved between the two courtiers. "How generous of you both. Yet I wonder—do your offers come from genuine opportunity, or from fear of what you do not understand?"
Both men's smiles faltered slightly at the directness of the question.
It was then that Prince Rhaegar chose to make his entrance, causing both Chelsted and Varys to bow deeply before withdrawing with promises to speak again soon.
"Your Highness," Arthur said, rising respectfully. "I hope your father's condition has improved?"
Rhaegar's expression grew troubled. "He remains... unchanged. Grand Maester Pycelle fears his mind may have been more fragile than we knew." He paused, studying Arthur carefully. "Strange, that such a thing should happen immediately after your audience with him."
"The ways of kings are mysterious to common folk like myself," Arthur replied neutrally.
"Are you common folk, though?" Rhaegar stepped closer, his voice dropping. "Yesterday I watched a bastard move like winter's wind, fight with the discipline of the ancient North, and face the Dragon's fire without melting. The prophecies speak of ice and fire joining..." He paused, studying Arthur's grey eyes. "Perhaps not in battle, but in... other ways. A union that might birth something greater than either element alone."
"Prophecies?" Arthur interrupted gently. "I am but a man, Your Highness. Flesh and blood, nothing more."
Rhaegar studied him intently, violet eyes burning with conviction. "Ice and fire, Arthur Snow. The songs sing of their eternal dance, their destined joining. You carry the North in your very soul—its strength, its endurance, its cold purpose. And I..." He gestured to his silver-gold hair, his purple eyes. "I am fire made flesh, dragon's blood running in my veins. Perhaps the prince that was promised is not a single being, but a line—a dynasty born from such a union."
Meanwhile, in the Great Sept of Baelor, darker plans were taking shape. The High Septon knelt before the altar of the Warrior, his weathered hands clasped in prayer. Around him, his most trusted septons waited in reverent silence.
"The boy is an abomination," the High Septon declared, rising from his knees. "No mortal should possess such power over another's mind. The Faith Militant may be disbanded, but our duty to protect the realm from unholy forces remains."
Septon Tormund, a thin man with eyes like cold steel, stepped forward. "What would you have us do, Your High Holiness?"
"He will leave King's Landing soon—such men always do when they've stirred the pot too much. When he travels north..." The High Septon's voice hardened. "The Seven will provide opportunities for righteous action. A tainted cup of wine, perhaps. Or bread touched by the Stranger's mercy."
"It shall be done," Tormund bowed deeply. "The Faith's reach extends far beyond these walls."
"See that it does," the High Septon replied. "Some poisons work slowly, allowing the sinner time to repent. Others... act with divine swiftness."
Back in Arthur's chambers, the Northern warrior stood alone at his window, watching the sun climb higher over the capital. The various offers and threats had been expected—powerful men always sought to control what they could not understand.
But Prince Rhaegar's words about prophecies had been... interesting. Arthur's grey eyes narrowed as he considered the implications. In his previous life, he had learned that destiny was often less about fate and more about preparation meeting opportunity.
A soft knock interrupted his thoughts. "Enter."
Ser Arthur Dayne stepped through the doorway, Dawn at his side as always. The legendary sword's presence still caused that strange resonance Arthur had grown accustomed to—like recognizing like.
"Are you ready?" Dayne asked simply.
Arthur turned from the window, his hand moving to rest on his own blade's hilt. "I've been ready since yesterday, Ser Arthur. The question is—are you prepared to lose the sword that defines you?"
Dayne's jaw tightened. "We shall see who loses what, Arthur Snow."
As the two warriors prepared to leave for their dawn duel, neither noticed the small bird that watched from the windowsill—one of many eyes that Lord Varys maintained throughout the capital. Soon, word would spread through the Red Keep like wildfire.
The Sword of the Morning was about to face the mysterious Northern bastard in single combat. The stakes were higher than anyone could imagine, and the outcome would send ripples throughout the Seven Kingdoms.
In his bed, King Aerys lay motionless, trapped in whatever mental prison Arthur's technique had created. His weak mind, already fractured by years of paranoia and madness, had proven unable to break free from the flow disruption.
The realm held its breath, unaware that its fate might soon rest on the outcome of a duel between two men named Arthur.