The Water Gardens were alive with the hum of conversation and the clink of silver goblets. The heat of the day had faded into a balmy twilight, the air thick with the scent of jasmine and roasting meat.
Rhaegar moved through the crowd like a silver flame. He was charming, attentive, and utterly magnetic. The Dornish ladies watched him with hungry eyes, their whispers following him like a wake.
They look at me like a prize, Rhaegar thought, declining a cup of wine from a particularly bold maiden. Like a stallion to be broken.
He remembered the stories of Aegon IV, the Unworthy, and his nine hundred lovers. It was a legacy of excess that had nearly destroyed the realm. Rhaegar had no intention of repeating it. His bed was not a battlefield.
Princess Elia introduced him to the lords of Dorne, a roll call of ancient blood and bitter rivalries.
There was Lord Edgar Yronwood, the Bloodroyal. A powerfully built man with a shock of white hair and a temper to match. The Yronwoods had been kings when the Martells were mere vassals, and they never let anyone forget it. He watched Oberyn with open hostility—rumor had it the Viper had been too friendly with Lord Edgar's paramour.
There was Lord Franklyn Fowler, the Old Hawk of Skyreach. Warden of the Prince's Pass, his family had feuded with the Yronwoods for centuries.
And then there were the Daynes.
The Daynes of Starfall were different. They had the look of old Valyria—pale skin, violet eyes—but they claimed a lineage that predated the dragons by thousands of years. They said their founder had followed a falling star to the mouth of the Torrentine.
Lord Dayne, the current patriarch, was a man of quiet dignity. But it was his children who drew the eye.
Ashara Dayne, a girl of haunting beauty with eyes like amethyst fire. She was tall and slender, with dark hair that tumbled down her back like a waterfall. Even Rhaegar, focused as he was, felt the pull of her gaze.
And Ser Arthur Dayne.
He was young, perhaps Rhaegar's age or a year older, but he stood with the stillness of a statue. He was broad-shouldered and lean-hipped, with the easy grace of a born killer. At his hip hung a greatsword with a pale, milky blade.
Dawn, Rhaegar thought, his pulse quickening. The sword forged from the heart of a fallen star.
It was said to be as sharp as Valyrian steel but alive with light. Only a knight deemed worthy by House Dayne could wield it and carry the title "Sword of the Morning."
After the dessert of lemon clouds and iced fruit, the younger knights grew restless. The courtyard was cleared, and the challenges began.
"My Prince!" a young Fowler shouted. "A bout?"
Rhaegar accepted. He laid aside his Valyrian steel scimitar and took up a blunted tourney sword.
It was a massacre.
One by one, the flower of Dornish chivalry threw themselves at the Dragon Prince. And one by one, they fell.
Rhaegar fought with a terrifying economy of motion. He didn't tire. He didn't slow down. The [Tree Rune] hummed in his blood, replenishing his strength with every breath. He parried, riposted, and disarmed with mechanical precision.
Swords cluttered the pink marble tiles like fallen leaves.
The applause grew louder, the ladies cheering wildly. But among the men, a silence was growing. It was the silence of disbelief. How could one man be so dominant? Even Oberyn, watching from the sidelines, looked grim. He realized now that Rhaegar had been holding back during their earlier match.
He is a monster, Oberyn thought, a chill running down his spine. A beautiful, unstoppable monster.
Finally, only the Daynes remained.
Lord Dayne stepped forward. "My Prince, you have defeated our sons and shamed our pride. But there is one blade you have not faced."
He gestured to Arthur.
"If you defeat my son," Lord Dayne said, his voice carrying over the courtyard, "I will lend you Dawn for the night. To study, as I know you enjoy such things."
"And if I lose?" Rhaegar asked, wiping sweat from his brow.
"Then you must play for us," Lord Dayne smiled. "A song on the high harp. They say your music is as dangerous as your sword."
"Agreed," Rhaegar said. His eyes locked onto the pale greatsword. He wanted to hold it. He wanted to feel the star-magic.
Arthur stepped into the circle. He drew Dawn.
The blade hissed as it left the scabbard. It glowed with a faint, otherworldly light, pale as milkglass. It was a two-handed greatsword, yet Arthur wielded it with one hand as easily as a dagger.
"My Prince," Arthur said, saluting.
"Ser Arthur," Rhaegar replied.
He drew his own weapon—the [Shadow Scimitar], Truth. Dark Valyrian steel against the pale light of the fallen star. Shadow and Dawn.
They clashed.
It was an explosion of sparks and steel.
Arthur was strong, stronger than Oberyn, stronger than Rhaegar expected. Dawn bit into Rhaegar's parries with a force that rattled his bones. But Rhaegar was faster.
They traded blows in a blur of motion. Up, down, left, right. The clangor of metal on metal rang out like a smith's hammer.
Arthur fought with the stoic perfection of a true knight. Rhaegar fought with the creative fire of a dragon.
The crowd held its breath. This was not a spar; it was art.
Rhaegar pressed the attack. He used the curved blade of his scimitar to hook Dawn's crossguard, twisting his body to leverage the heavier blade aside. Arthur recovered, stepping back and swinging a massive overhead chop.
Rhaegar didn't block it. He stepped into it.
Dodging the blow by a hair's breadth, Rhaegar brought the flat of his blade down on Arthur's wrist.
Arthur hissed, his grip loosening. Rhaegar swept his leg, knocking the Sword of the Morning off balance.
Arthur fell to one knee, Dawn point-down in the marble to steady himself. Rhaegar's blade hovered inches from his neck.
Silence.
Then, Arthur looked up and smiled—a rare, genuine smile that lit up his solemn face.
"I yield," Arthur said.
Rhaegar sheathed his sword and offered a hand. Arthur took it, and Rhaegar pulled him to his feet.
"You are the best I have ever faced," Rhaegar said honestly.
"And you are the best I have ever seen," Arthur replied.
Lord Dayne approached, carrying the scabbard for Dawn. He handed the greatsword to Rhaegar.
"A promise is a promise, my Prince," Lord Dayne said. "The sword is yours for the night."
Rhaegar took the hilt. It felt warm, alive. It hummed against his palm, a song of ice and fire, of stars and void.
The Sword of the Morning, Rhaegar thought, looking at the glowing blade. And the Prince of Dragonstone.
He looked at Arthur, and he knew.
I have found my white shadow.