Chapter 120– The Sword of the Morning
The Water Gardens were a flowing feast today; laughter rang across the balconies as Dornish lords and ladies welcomed Rhaegar. Children playing in the gardens took their meal elsewhere, out of the way.
The silver-haired prince chatted easily with the lords around him, his eyes bright. He was like living flame, a blazing sun, yet Rhaegar was gracious. No one dismissed him for his youth—his birthright, his battlefield fame, the legend of the three-headed dragonrider, his effortless victory over Oberyn's challenge, all added to his allure. A Targaryen who was charming, accomplished, dashing, and utterly magnetic.
Rhaegar found the Dornish every bit as fiery; many a brazen glance—men and women alike, though mostly women—he simply pretended not to see.
Plenty considered bedding a handsome Targaryen a trophy to flaunt, like collecting stamps. Such chaotic love was more than Rhaegar could stomach; a dragonlord should not limit his battles to the bedchamber. King Aegon IV had boasted of nine hundred women, apparently the family record, and the Unworthy had once turned House Targaryen into a laughingstock.
As cups were refilled, the Princess of Dorne introduced the foremost lords of Dorne, and Rhaegar's gaze swept over them.
Dorne's climate is harsh, its soil broken; because the land is so unforgiving, lords and smallfolk cluster in a handful of fertile pockets, far fewer vassals than in other realms. People mass along the Greenblood, the eastern coast, the southern foothills of the Red Mountains, and the hidden valleys and high pastures beyond. A madman may find water beneath the dunes, but such luck is rare.
As the Princess of Dorne presented each lord, Rhaegar weighed them in his mind: the Dornish lords went their own way; Sunspear's grip was hardly iron.
Though House Martell ruled as Princes of Dorne, the greatest of the remaining houses still traced their pride to the six kings Nymeria of the Rhoynar had sent to the Wall. They had once styled themselves kings and remained powerful; save for a few royal lines now extinct, the blood of those kings was still strong.
Foremost among the vassals were the blood-proud House Yronwood, Lords of Yronwood and Wardens of the Stone Way, the oldest foes of Sunspear. Today Lord Edgar Yronwood, old but still hale and irascible, attended; Rhaegar watched him converse with Prince Oberyn and found the sight almost comical.
House Fowler of Skyreach had long feuded with the Yronwoods, much as House Bracken and House Blackwood did in the Riverlands. The Fowlers were mighty, calling themselves Lords of Skyreach and Wardens of the Prince's Pass. Today their head, Lord Franklyn Fowler, was present.
Below the two Warden houses came House Blackmont of Blackmont, House Manwoody of Kingsgrave, and House Dayne of Starfall—each once crowned. Manwoody's seat, Kingsgrave in the Prince's Pass, guards the road into Dorne. Their arms are striking: a white skull bearing a golden crown on black, said to commemorate an ancient King of the Reach slain at Kingsgrave by the house's founder.
Starfall, the seat of House Dayne, lies on an island at the mouth of the Torrentine where it flows into the Summer Sea; they ward the western approaches and are guardians in all but name. Northeast of Starfall lies High Hermitage, a cadet branch of House Dayne. House Blackmont sits beneath the Red Mountains along the Torrentine, amid the Dornish hills.
Then came House Gargalen of Salt Shore, House Uller of Hellholt, House Dalt of Lemonwood, House Qorgyle of Sandstone, House Allyrion of Godsgrace, House Jordayne of the Tor, and more besides.
Rhaegar's keenest interest lay with House Dayne, steeped in mystery: their origins, the greatsword Dawn, the fallen star from which it was forged. The title Sword of the Morning is bestowed only upon a knight of House Dayne deemed worthy; each bearer wields the house's ancestral blade, Dawn.
The Daynes were impossible to miss. Among Dornish beauties they ranked high: pale skin, hair from deep brown to pale gold, and many bore eyes of purple.
Leading them today was Lord Dayne of Starfall, accompanied by two of his children: Ser Arthur Dayne and Lady Ashara Dayne. Though young, Arthur's gaze was sharp and martial—clearly a blade in human form. Ashara, even younger, stood tall with dark hair, fair skin, and those unforgettable violet eyes—strikingly beautiful.
After the snake soup came iced fruit sherbet to cool the tongue, followed by blood-orange-shaped clouds of spun sugar filled with sweet custard and slivers of plum and cherry.
But Dornish food is fiery, and Dornish tempers even more so.
After the dessert, the youths between the mats grew eager to try; they were still green, hearts burning with explosive fire. With the Princess of Dorne and Lady Ashara before them—and a chance to avenge Oberyn—each lad saw a moment to shine.
Oberyn urged his comrades on. Courage was welcome, but hope was slim; the silver-haired prince's strength, agility, and speed were beyond most common warriors.
Many young Dornishmen bridled at Oberyn's defeat. All agreed his skill stood out among the new generation, yet youth, beauty, and honor always make a man overrate himself—sometimes to the point of swelling pride.
When the feast ended and the boards were cleared, a champion at last stepped forward.
"I challenge you, Your Highness!" A young Dornish noble approached, mustering what courage he could.
"Granted!" Rhaegar leapt from the balcony; the courtyard became an arena.
Blunted steel still gleamed cold. Rhaegar set aside his shadow cleaver—against common steel it would be unfair.
Beneath blood-orange shade, amid briny sea breeze and citrus sweetness, the warriors wheeled, struck, aimed, and slashed across the yard.
Rhaegar's blade swept left and right like a white-hot brand. On his black coat a fire-dragon bared its claws; the man himself seemed a living blaze.
Fierce strength, a furious sword—nothing could stand before him. One by one his foes fell; at the apex of force, one power shatters all.
Each defeated man cast his sword at Rhaegar's feet, a gesture of surrender. One victory, one blade discarded.
Rhaegar watched the crestfallen losers—still too weak. None matched Oberyn, let alone the prince who had slain the pirate kings of the Narrow Sea and the Stepstones.
The flower of Dorne had been routed; the swords lay in a small heap. Applause and cheers rolled like tides, ever fervent—especially from ladies and maids. Yet many men now muttered: surely they could not keep losing. Eyes turned to the Sword of the Morning, Dorne's martial pinnacle.
Even Oberyn's smile faded. Among top fighters the gap should not be so vast; skill and technique were near equal, and in the end only luck and stamina decided who produced the inspired stroke.
Why was Ser Barristan Selmy so strong? Because he was steady—steady and mighty. On a battlefield stamina fades fast; few can charge and charge again, perhaps three or four bouts a day. Yet Rhaegar fought and won without pause, still at ease, footwork unbroken. Oberyn now saw the gulf was vast—Rhaegar had been toying with him.
The man is unfathomable, Oberyn thought. Is the distance between us like heaven and abyss? Can first-rank fighters still be so far apart? Born noble, gifted, and tutored by masters, he had believed that even beyond Dorne he ranked among the Seven Kingdoms' finest—until this helpless moment.
"If Prince Rhaegar agrees, I would let my son face him. The stake is simple: the prince excels at the harp—let him grace our feast with a song." Lord Dayne spoke up, sending Ser Arthur Dayne forth. To step in himself would be improper, and the prince was already wearied from many bouts.
"Then I too must stake something—I would hold Dawn for a while." Rhaegar's eyes blazed; the blade was legend, and he burned to touch it.
"Say not a while—if the prince defeats my son, I shall lend you Dawn for the night. To lose to the Light of the Seven Kingdoms would still be my pride," Lord Dayne vowed boldly.
Ser Arthur Dayne stepped forward; Rhaegar met him blade to blade—this would be the final duel. Ser Arthur Dayne was Dorne's last hidden card.
Arthur drew his sword: the blade pale as milkglass, sharp as Valyrian steel. Legend says Dawn was forged from the heart of a fallen star. Rhaegar thought of Starfall's tale—the first Dayne followed a shooting star to an isle at the mouth of the Torrentine. There he found a fallen star, raised a castle—today's Starfall—and founded his house. Many claim Dawn was forged from that star's heart; if true, the sword was ancient indeed.
Rhaegar gazed at Dawn—perhaps the oldest blade in Westeros, said to be thousands of years old. House Stark once possessed Ice, an ancestral blade of ancient make, but that sword had been lost; the Starks later bore a Valyrian steel greatsword of the same name. Otherwise he would have loved to see it.
"My pardon." Rhaegar drew the shadow cleaver; common steel could not endure Valyrian steel, yet Dawn's strange metal could stand against it.
Rhaegar moved like a wild dragon, breathing scalding flame. Steel flashed in a storm of edges, a force that routed armies; the power behind each cut crashed like a landslide, impossible to parry.
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