The Water Gardens held its breath.
On the pink marble tiles, beneath the canopy of blood orange trees, two young men circled each other. They were the apex of their generation—one dark, one light; one stone, one fire.
The Dornish nobility watched from the balconies like a parliament of hawks. They knew they were witnessing history. Rhaegar Targaryen, the Dragon Prince, fresh from his victories in the Stepstones. Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, the prodigy of Starfall.
It was a clash of legends before the legends were even fully written.
Rhaegar held the [Shadow Scimitar]—Truth—in his right hand. The dark Valyrian steel drank the twilight, its ripples shimmering like oil on water.
Arthur held Dawn. The pale greatsword glowed with an inner light, milky and ethereal. It was not Valyrian steel, but something older, something born from the stars.
"I am Ser Arthur Dayne of Starfall," Arthur said, his voice steady. "Guard yourself, my Prince."
"I am Rhaegar of House Targaryen," Rhaegar replied, raising his blade. "Show me the light, Ser Arthur."
They moved.
It was an explosion of speed. Arthur was a whirlwind of pale light, his greatsword moving with impossible lightness. He attacked with a flurry of blows—high, low, thrust, slash—each one capable of cleaving a man in two.
Rhaegar met him with shadow.
Clang. Clang. Clang.
The sound of steel on star-metal rang out like bells. Sparks flew, hot and bright, sizzling on the marble floor.
Rhaegar felt the power of Dawn with every parry. The sword was alive. It hummed against his own blade, vibrating with a frequency that set his teeth on edge.
It is hungry, Rhaegar realized. Just like the dragons.
But Arthur was human. And Rhaegar... Rhaegar was becoming something else.
The [Tree Rune] pulsed in his chest, feeding him endurance. The [Sword Rune] guided his hand, anticipating Arthur's strikes before they even landed.
Arthur fought with the perfect technique of a master. Rhaegar fought with the relentless energy of a storm.
Arthur's attacks began to slow. His breath came in ragged gasps. The greatsword, light as it was, still required strength to wield. Rhaegar, however, seemed to grow stronger as the fight went on. His movements were fluid, effortless.
Lord Dayne, watching from the balcony, sighed. "My son is beaten."
He saw what the others missed. Arthur was attacking, yes, but Rhaegar was dictating the pace. The Prince was leading the dance.
Rhaegar saw the opening. Arthur overextended on a downward slash, tired muscles betraying his form for a fraction of a second.
Rhaegar stepped inside. He caught Dawn on the crossguard of Truth, locked the blades, and twisted. With a surge of strength, he forced Arthur's blade down.
He swept his leg, knocking Arthur's feet out from under him.
Arthur crashed to the marble. Dawn skittered away across the tiles.
Rhaegar stood over him, the dark scimitar pointed at Arthur's chest. He wasn't even winded.
"I yield," Arthur gasped, looking up with wide, shocked eyes. He had never been beaten like this. Not by his father, not by the master-at-arms. He had been dismantled.
"No," Rhaegar said, sheathing his sword and offering a hand. "You do not yield, Ser Arthur. You learn."
He pulled the young knight to his feet.
"You have the makings of the greatest Sword of the Morning who ever lived," Rhaegar said quietly. "But today, the Shadow was longer than the Dawn."
The crowd erupted. Cheers for the Prince, cheers for the Knight. It was a display of chivalry that warmed the Dornish hearts.
Arthur looked at Rhaegar, and a slow smile spread across his face. It was the smile of a man who had found an equal. Or a leader.
"A bet is a bet," Arthur said. He walked over to Dawn, picked it up, and sheathed it. Then, he unbuckled the belt and handed it to Rhaegar.
"For one night," Arthur said. "The Sword of the Morning is yours."
Rhaegar took the white sword. He handed Truth to Arthur.
"And the Shadow is yours. Treat her well. She bites."
They walked off the floor together, arm in arm, amidst the roar of the crowd.
"Long live the Prince!"
"Long live the Sword of the Morning!"
From the shadows, Oberyn watched, his face unreadable. He saw the bond forming between the two men. It was a bond of steel and blood, stronger than any marriage.
Later that night, in his guest chambers, Rhaegar sat alone with Dawn.
The sword lay on the table, glowing softly in the dark room. It was beautiful. Terrifyingly beautiful.
Rhaegar ran his hand along the flat of the blade. It was cool to the touch, like river stone.
Forged from the heart of a fallen star, he thought. What secrets do you hold?
He summoned a small flame in his palm. [Blue Flame].
He brought the fire close to the blade.
Nothing happened. The metal did not heat. It did not change color. It simply drank the light of the fire and shone it back, brighter and purer.
It resists the fire, Rhaegar noted. Or perhaps it transcends it.
He gripped the hilt. He felt a hum, a connection. It wasn't the raw, bestial bond he had with the dragons. It was something cleaner. Sharper.
The Sword of the Morning brings the light, Rhaegar whispered. But to bring the dawn, you must first survive the long night.
He sheathed the sword. Tomorrow, he would return it. But tonight, he slept with the stars by his side.