Chapter 23 – My Sword Has Never Failed Me
"I agree with you, Ser Arthur."
The man before him hadn't introduced himself, but only a fool would fail to recognize the legendary knight clad in the white of the Kingsguard, bearing the wide, pale blade that gleamed like moonlight.
Arthur Dayne. The Sword of the Morning.
In the chronicles, Ser Jaime Lannister once quipped that Dayne could hold his member in one hand and still cut down five Kingsguard with the other. Perhaps Jaime exaggerated—but even if true, he hadn't been speaking of the men here today. After all, Barristan Selmy alone would have made that feat nigh impossible.
Even so, with his present strength, Lance found it difficult enough to imagine defeating Prince Rhaegar, let alone this man—hailed across the realm as the greatest knight of the Seven Kingdoms.
With Arthur standing firmly on his side, Lance chose not to press Oswell Whent's earlier offense further. Still, he had no intention of simply letting the matter slide.
"I do agree with you," he repeated, then shifted his gaze to the longsword still pressing against his chest. Lifting his head, he flashed a grin.
In the few days since the carnage at Duskendale, the aura of blood about him had grown heavy. Even a smile from Lance carried menace enough to chill the bones. Ser Oswell Whent shuddered, lowering his blade at once, unable to meet his eyes.
"Well then, if we're to see a display of swordplay, let's begin, Ser Oswell."
Lance's voice was calm, but carried clearly to every ear in the throne room.
Arthur's smirk faltered. His violet eyes narrowed as he studied the brash young knight before him. He had not expected such open defiance.
"Are you certain, Ser Lance?" he asked gravely, brushing aside Oswell Whent with a single hand. "Do you truly mean for Ser Oswell to demonstrate his skill here and now?"
"Why not?" Lance shrugged lightly, the ghost of a challenge playing at his lips. "I've yet to see the swordsmanship of my brothers in white. I find myself most eager."
He stepped closer, meeting Arthur's gaze without a trace of fear.
"Unless, of course… you'd prefer to take his place, Ser Arthur. To show us the fabled swordsmanship of House Dayne."
"That," Lance added with a slow clap, "would be even better."
A hush fell over the hall. Only the faint groans of King Aerys echoed, as Pycelle tended silently to the fresh cuts wrought by the Iron Throne.
Even Rhaegar Targaryen frowned, casting a questioning look toward Ser Barristan at Lance's side, as if to ask: Is he always this reckless?
Arthur's gaze lingered at Lance's throat, weighing for a moment whether the impudent knight might not deserve to lose his head.
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Then came laughter.
Wild, shrill, unrestrained.
"Hah! Hahaha! Good! Good!"
King Aerys clapped his hands together like a mad child, his thin shoulders shaking with glee. Only then did the lords and knights present notice that Grand Maester Pycelle had finished binding his wounds.
Say what one might of Pycelle—at least he was diligent. Not once had he allowed the tension in the hall to distract him, tending to the king's injuries in silence. Perhaps it was this very discretion that had kept him alive and in favor through six monarchs, surviving coups and usurpations alike, until his end in old age.
"I find Ser Lance's suggestion delightful!"
Supported by Barristan, the king rose, his violet eyes now fixed on Dawn, the pale greatsword at Arthur Dayne's side.
"It has been over a year since we last met, Ser Arthur, has it not?"
"Yes, Your Grace," Dayne inclined his head. Even the Sword of the Morning bent the knee to the king's presence. "The last time was at the tourney in Lannisport."
"Yes… I recall you were champion."
"You remember well, Your Grace."
Aerys adjusted the crown upon his tangled hair and let out a wistful sigh. "Yet it is a pity, ser. Jousts and melees show us little of Dayne's true art, do they not?"
He leaned forward, the smile on his lips both eager and cruel.
"Perhaps you might indulge us here, as Ser Lance has proposed. Show us the swordplay of House Dayne. Here. Now."
The words fell with the softness of a request—but no one in the hall mistook them for anything less than a king's command.
At those words, Ser Arthur Dayne's face hardened, the playful smirk gone.
"My sword is for slaying Your Grace's enemies," he said gravely, "not for performance."
It was no surprise—Arthur refused outright. Though sworn to Aerys, the pride of House Dayne would not allow so demeaning a command.
For thousands of years, since the Dawn Age itself, the Daynes of Starfall had borne Dawn, a greatsword forged from the heart of a fallen star. Through the ages, House Dayne had ruled as Kings of the Torrentine before bending the knee to Sunspear. And across the centuries, there had been many who earned the title Sword of the Morning—knights whose names blazed like the blade they bore.
Dawn had drunk the blood of countless foes. Yet never—never—had it been brandished as a bauble for sport. To do so now would stain the honor of both blade and house. Should Arthur submit, he would be remembered not as the greatest of the Swordbearers, but as the most ridiculous.
"You would defy the king's command, Ser Arthur?"
Lance stepped forward, voice sharp as a drawn blade. "Have you forgotten the white cloak you wear, or the vows you swore? Or perhaps…"
His eyes flicked meaningfully to Prince Rhaegar. "Perhaps your true loyalty lies elsewhere."
"Impudent cur!"
At last another knight could bear no more. A black-armored man strode forth, fury blazing, jabbing a gauntleted finger toward Lance's face.
"How dare you sow discord between His Grace and Prince Rhaegar? Do not think that pulling the king from Duskendale gives you leave to speak so brazenly. The deaths of Ser Richard Lonmouth and Ser Myles Mooton are debts yet unpaid!"
Lance's eyes narrowed to slits. "I do not know your name, but your tongue is louder than all of ours combined. If I hear it wag in the king's hall again, I swear I will cut it from your mouth myself. Unless…" he gestured casually to the massive greatsword at his back, gift of Ser Gerold Hightower, "…you would care to test whether my blade is sharp."
The knight bristled, hand flying to his hilt. "My own sword has never failed me—I am Jon Connington!"
"Enough."
Rhaegar's hand clamped down on Connington's, holding the blade fast in its scabbard.
"He insults you again and again," Connington growled, still straining. "Let me strike him down, Rhaegar—"
"I said enough." The prince's violet eyes glimmered with warning. At that look, Jon Connington fell silent, swallowing his rage.
Only Lance studied the two men, noting the closeness of their locked hands, the tension between them. A shadow of doubt flickered across his thoughts. Dragonstone customs are freer than I imagined. Strange… He shook his head. No. Rhaegar risked a kingdom for Lyanna Stark. This can't be what it looks like. And yet…
He frowned, glancing back toward Aerys.
That such quarrels could break into open challenge in the king's hall, with swords nearly drawn before the Iron Throne itself, was telling. The king's authority had waned in these long months of captivity; his crown no longer commanded fear.
As Lance pondered, the echo of firm footsteps carried into the hall.
Every head turned.
A tall man in a crimson robe entered, his stride measured, his bearing regal.
The Hand of the King. Tywin Lannister.
"Your Grace. Your Highness." His voice rang strong, polished, and commanding—more kingly than the king himself.
"What do you want, Tywin?"
Aerys snapped, his voice laced with spite. Clutching Lance's hand, he near-fled back to the Iron Throne, collapsing into it as if to stake his claim before Tywin could.
Lance sighed, standing stiff and resolute before his king. Tywin, by contrast, betrayed nothing. His golden eyes remained unreadable as he watched the pitiful scene unfold.
Only once Aerys had settled did Tywin incline his head slightly toward Rhaegar.
"As you commanded, my prince," he said, voice firm. "I have brought them."
A shadow lifted from Rhaegar's features. His lips curved in the faintest smile as his gaze slipped past Lance.
"Then let them enter, my lord," the prince said—without seeking his father's leave.