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The Next Morning
The twenty candidates assembled in the great hall, tension visible in faces and postures. They knew not everyone would be accepted—Arthur had been clear about that from the start. But knowing rejection was possible and experiencing it were different things.
Lord Rickard stood beside Arthur, his presence lending authority to the announcement. Brandon stood at the back, ready to handle any immediate political fallout.
"Over the past three days," Arthur began, "we've evaluated each of you across multiple criteria. What follows is not judgment on your worth as warriors or people. It's assessment of specific aptitudes required for cultivation training. Those not selected today may develop those aptitudes in time—this isn't permanent rejection, just recognition that you're not ready yet."
He paused, letting that sink in. "The following candidates have been accepted for training."
He read the names. Torrhen Karstark, whose face broke into a triumphant grin. Dacey Mormont, who nodded once with quiet satisfaction. Six others who showed relief and pride in varying measures.
And Domeric Bolton, who accepted the news with the same careful composure he'd shown throughout evaluation.
"That's only eight," Robard Flint said loudly. "You said a dozen candidates would be accepted."
"I said we'd accept approximately a dozen qualified candidates," Arthur corrected. "Eight met all criteria definitively. Three more are probationary—they'll train alongside the main group, but continued participation depends on demonstrating consistent capability and character over the next month."
He named the three probationary candidates, saw their relief mixed with determination to prove themselves.
"That leaves nine of you who aren't ready for cultivation training yet," Arthur continued, turning to face them directly. "For some, it's physical conditioning—you need more baseline strength and endurance before advanced training would be productive. For others, it's discipline or patience—the ability to practice the same movements hundreds of times without losing focus. And for a few, it's character concerns that need to be addressed before we can trust you with enhanced capabilities."
"This is horseshit," Robard Flint said angrily. "My father committed resources to the Council. I should be trained regardless of your arbitrary evaluations."
"Your father committed resources in exchange for fair evaluation of candidates he nominated," Arthur replied calmly. "You received that evaluation. You didn't meet the standards. That's not arbitrary—it's consistent application of criteria we established before any candidates arrived."
"I'm a better warrior than half those you accepted," Robard insisted.
"Perhaps," Arthur allowed. "But being a good warrior isn't the same as being suited for cultivation training. Your combat skills aren't in question. Your attitude, patience, and treatment of others during evaluation are what disqualified you."
Robard's face flushed with anger. "My Father will hear about this."
"I expect he will," Arthur said. "And if he wishes to discuss the evaluation process, I'll be happy to show him the detailed records we kept. Every decision was documented, every assessment was based on observed behavior. Your father will see that you were evaluated fairly and found unsuitable for reasons that have nothing to do with his house's status or our political preferences."
Medger Cerwyn stepped forward, his expression more controlled than Robard's but clearly angry. "So Lord Cerwyn sends his heir, commits considerable resources, and I'm rejected because... why exactly?"
"Because during kitchen work, you berated a servant for slowing your group down," Arthur replied bluntly. "Because your strength training showed excellent physical capability but poor judgment—you pushed through failure instead of maintaining form. Because you demonstrated impatience with correction and frustration when tasks didn't proceed as quickly as you wanted. Those are all traits that would become dangerous if enhanced to superhuman levels."
"I'm passionate," Medger protested. "I want to succeed."
"There's a difference between passion and lack of control," Arthur said. "One drives improvement. The other creates threats. Come back in six months, demonstrate better discipline and judgment, and we'll evaluate you again. But right now, you're not ready."
Similar conversations played out with the other rejected candidates—some accepting the explanation more gracefully than others, all of them disappointed, none of them happy with Arthur's consistency in applying standards regardless of political pressure.
Finally, Lord Rickard spoke. "The evaluations are complete. Those accepted will begin training tomorrow. Those rejected may petition for reevaluation after six months, provided they can demonstrate improvement in the areas that disqualified them. This matter is concluded."
It was dismissal and command both. The rejected candidates filed out, some bitter, others thoughtful, all of them forced to accept that the Council's standards were genuine rather than political convenience.
The accepted candidates remained, looking at each other with mixture of pride and nervousness about what came next.
"Training begins at dawn," Arthur told them. "You'll learn the Four Foundations—the basic cultivation techniques that everything else builds on. This will be harder than you expect, more demanding than you imagine, and more rewarding than you can currently comprehend. Welcome to the beginning of your transformation."
They departed, excitement and trepidation evident in whispered conversations.
Arthur remained with his core group, aware that he'd just created political complications that would echo for months. Houses whose candidates had been rejected would be unhappy. Lords would complain about arbitrary standards and unfair evaluation. Pressure would be applied to lower criteria or make exceptions.
But the alternative—accepting candidates who shouldn't receive training—would undermine everything the Council represented.
"That could have gone worse," Lyanna observed.
"It will get worse," Arthur replied. "When those rejected candidates return home and tell their stories, when their lords write letters demanding explanations, when political pressure builds to make exceptions. That's when we'll discover if the Council can actually maintain its standards or if noble privilege will erode them."
"You really think the rejected lords will pressure us?" Brandon asked.
"I know they will," Arthur said. "Which is why we documented everything, why we were consistent, why we can prove every decision was based on observed behavior rather than politics. The standard has been set. Now we hold it, whatever comes."
The door opened quietly, and Redna slipped into the room with the practiced silence that made her invaluable for intelligence gathering. Her expression was carefully neutral, but Arthur had known her long enough to read the tension in her shoulders.
"News?" he asked.
"Several pieces," Redna replied, moving to stand beside the window where their conversation would be harder to overhear from the corridor. "First, confirmation from our contacts in the south—Lord Steffon Baratheon has departed Storm's End with a considerable escort. Three hundred mounted knights, heading south to meet the royal progress before it enters Dorne."
"Expected," Rickard said from his position near the hearth. "The king requested Storm's End's participation in the escort. Steffon's a loyal man—of course he'd comply."
"There's more," Redna continued. "Stannis Baratheon is managing Storm's End in his father's absence. Robert will apparently join the escort on the return journey—commanding the protection through Baratheon lands as they head back north. A chance for the young lord to demonstrate his martial capabilities before the king."
Arthur and Lyanna exchanged glances. Robert Baratheon commanding a royal escort, eager to prove himself, still believing that martial prowess would win him Lyanna's hand. That was a complication they'd need to address eventually—but not immediately.
"Is that all?" Arthur asked, sensing there was more.
Redna hesitated, which was unusual for her. "There are… rumors. Difficult to confirm, possibly nothing of substance. But our informants along the coast near the Stormlands have reported strange activity. Sellswords are being gathered on one of the smaller islands just offshore. Not a large force—perhaps two or three dozen so far—but the recruitment is quiet, careful, and no one seems to know who's paying them."
"Sellswords aren't uncommon in the Stormlands," Brandon noted. "Plenty of petty lords hire them for skirmishes or coastal defense."
"These aren't local hires," Redna corrected. "They're being approached in ports, offered heavy coin, and then ferried to that island. Once there, they disappear from sight. Our people tried following a few, but the ships aren't tied to any known merchants, and those who go across aren't seen again."
Arthur's expression hardened. "What kind of sellswords? Veterans or drifters? Any pattern?"
"Mixed," Redna said. "Some seasoned, some raw. The only constant is that they're not Westerosi—men from Essos, the Free Cities, even a few pirates turned mercenary. No loyalties, no roots."
"Could be some Stormlord building a private force," Lyanna offered, though her tone lacked conviction. "Those islands have been used for smuggling before. Maybe someone's preparing for unrest."
"Possible," Redna said slowly. "But the secrecy bothers me. This isn't how you build a militia. It feels more like a staging ground—and the timing worries me. If tensions between North and South keep rising, something like this could turn dangerous later. Especially if an attack or incident were to happen along the royal party's route back to King's Landing—it would be the perfect moment for whoever's behind this to strike."
Arthur was silent for a long moment. Foreign sellswords, quietly assembled on an island near the Stormlands, hidden from official notice. It could be coincidence—or the first move of something far more deliberate.
Arthur's gaze lingered on the map spread before them, the inked coastlines seeming to shift in the candlelight. "The three agents we identified before," he said at last. "The ones planning to infiltrate Hollow Vale. Have we located them yet?"
Redna exhaled through her nose, a hint of irritation crossing her features. "No. They're still circling, trying to find a way in. We intercepted talk of bribes—low-level merchants, a few dockhands—but our security's too tight. Every path they try closes before they can act. It's starting to frustrate them."
Arthur nodded slightly. "Good. Frustration makes people careless. Keep the pressure subtle—let them think the door's almost open. When they reach for the handle, I want to know."
Redna's lips curved faintly. "Understood."
"What about the sellswords?" Lyanna asked. "Do we investigate further or just monitor?"
"Monitor for now," Arthur decided. "We can't spare resources for a full investigation when we don't even know if it's connected to anything threatening us directly. But keep eyes on the situation. If the numbers grow significantly, or if we see any connection to the infiltration attempts here, we escalate."
"And if something does happen during the royal progress?" Brandon asked quietly.
"Then we'll need to be very careful about how we respond," Arthur said. "Any incident involving the king or his family will have consequences far beyond whoever's directly responsible. The political fallout could destabilize the realm".
"You think someone's orchestrating multiple threats?" Lyanna asked.
"I think we'd be fools to assume all our problems are unrelated coincidences," Arthur replied. "But I also know we can't chase shadows or see conspiracies in every unusual report. We gather information, we maintain security, and we prepare for various scenarios. That's what we do."
The room fell silent, each of them considering the implications.