A servant in the colors of House Targaryen stopped a step from the royal table. The man lowered his head and murmured a few quick words.
"The gift ceremony," Rhaegar said, stepping away from the main dais. The prince touched Elia's elbow and guided her toward the opposite end of the hall.
We followed the flow of guests that turned toward the back of the Great Hall. The couple stopped at the base of the Iron Throne. The misshapen mountain of fallen enemies' swords rose until it nearly touched the darkness of the ceiling. The seat was a crude mass of sharp points and twisted steel blades, casting a dense, jagged shadow over the stone steps.
Aerys Targaryen did not occupy the top of the swords. The king's golden crown and red cloak were nowhere in the hall.
A woman with hard Valyrian features walked along the side of the step and took position to Rhaegar's right. Her hair fell thin and perfectly silver over the pale silk of her dress. A small boy hid half his body behind her leg, his short fingers gripping the fabric of her skirt with force. The features of both confirmed the identities of Queen Rhaella Targaryen and young Prince Viserys.
Rhaegar stopped at the center of the lowest step, his back to the throne of swords. The heir raised his right hand open and flat. The clinking of cups, the music of the bards, and the noise of conversation died almost at the same instant. Absolute silence took the limestone of the entire hall.
"The King will not be joining us for this portion," Rhaegar declared, his voice echoing clean and high against the walls. "The burdens of the Crown and the ongoing duties of Westeros occupy my father's attention this evening."
No voice objected. The lords of the South accepted the justification with set and motionless expressions.
The master of ceremonies struck the base of his iron staff against the floor. The line of nobles formed along the main corridor at once. The rite of gifts began.
Lords from every region advanced to the base of the steps, setting boxes and chests before Rhaegar and Elia. They offered saddles of green velvet, cups of solid gold set with raw emeralds, lengths of transparent silk imported from Myr, and heavy chains of diamonds.
Rhaegar and Elia thanked each man who knelt on the stone. The lips of the prince and princess pulled upward with each new box opened, forming the measured and exact smiles demanded by the castle's decorum. Yet the gleam of rare jewels and gold found no reflection in their eyes. Rhaegar's gaze stayed fixed on the horizon of the hall, while Elia blinked at a slow and heavy rhythm, letting the gifts pass through her eyes without a single muscle of her face leaving the mechanical shape of courtesy.
I was last in the line.
When I took my first step forward, Rhaegar shifted his weight on the stone. The prince uncrossed his hands and straightened his spine. The mechanical, empty attention he had given the Southern lords disappeared. His violet eyes dropped quickly to the long wooden chest in Perseu's hands and fixed on the smaller box I carried.
Beside the heir, Queen Rhaella turned her neck. Her gaze swept the grey wool of my doublet and locked on my features. The light of the iron candelabras caught the platinum half of my hair and the dark purple tone of my left iris. The queen's pale fingers tightened on the silk at little Viserys's shoulder. The boy tucked his head down. Rhaella's lips parted in a mute, rigid line. She held the look, measuring every detail of old Valyrian blood mixed with a Northern face.
My boots cracked on the stone when I stopped three paces from the couple. Perseu stationed himself just behind my right shoulder, the long box pressed against his dark leather chest.
The lords in the side rows twisted their lips. A Reach knight crossed his arms over a yellow silk doublet, laughing quietly as he knocked his shoulder against the noble beside him. The word bastard rasped through the silence of the hall, followed by muffled whispers about snow and Northern misery. A lord of the Stormlands drove his sharp eyes into the grey wool of my clothes, without a thread of gold, dropped his gaze to the small box in my hand, and raised his left brow in a hard curve.
I raised the smaller box. The polished brass latch gave under my thumb and I lifted the lid.
No diamond or silver caught the light of the iron candelabras. Resting in the black suede was a thin, rigid necklace. The piece was forged entirely from pure Valyrian steel. The metal displayed the dark, rippled pattern of the alloy, resembling smoke solidified on the smooth surface of the choker. It was the simplest piece of all the heirlooms my mother had left behind.
"This jewel belonged to my mother." I kept the wood open at chest height so Elia could see the bottom. "I believe she would have been delighted to know that one of her pieces would adorn the neck of the future queen of the Seven Kingdoms."
The whispers in the Reach rows ceased. The sound of held breath leaked among the nearest lords, who craned their necks to see the dark, rare ripples of the Valyrian steel.
Elia's fingers slipped from the front of her orange dress. She tilted her torso millimeters forward. The exact, automatic smile she had used for the last thirty minutes came apart completely. Her lips parted slightly and her dark eyes fixed on the metal pattern of the necklace.
"The weight of this inheritance silences any diamond of the South, Arthur," Elia answered, extending her hand and touching the cold surface of the steel with her fingertips. "I will honor this piece and the memory of your mother."
I closed the smaller box and handed it to the servant standing beside the princess.
I turned my shoulders back. I gripped the base of the heavy wooden structure, taking the chest from Perseu's hands.
"This item did not belong to me." The silence of the hall swallowed the echo of my voice. "On one of my travels, it was entrusted to me by a friend with the order to return it to its rightful owners."
Ser Arthur Dayne broke his guard posture on the side of the dais. The snow-white cloak brushed the stone. The knight descended the short step, extended his mail-gloved hands, and pulled the chest from my grip. He turned on his heels and delivered the carved wood directly to Rhaegar.
The prince supported the weight on his left arm. His long fingers unfastened the two iron clasps at the ends of the structure. The metal cracked dry. Rhaegar pushed the carved lid back.
Red velvet lined the interior. The narrow, dark blade rested at the center. The Valyrian steel showed continuous black ripples, and the pommel bore a raw ruby set between dragon wings of darkened silver.
Rhaegar's jaw locked. The heir stopped breathing through his nose. He drove his violet eyes into the pattern of the Valyrian alloy, tracing the length of the weapon from point to pommel.
"Dark Sister," Rhaegar murmured, the sound leaving his throat rough and low. "The sword of Visenya Targaryen."
Queen Rhaella released the silk of her own skirt. She took half a step toward the open chest. The woman's eyes drove into the hilt of the weapon lost for decades beyond the Wall. Behind her, little Viserys craned his neck, following his mother's reaction. Ser Arthur Dayne tightened his fingers on the pommel of his own sword. The Great Hall stayed still. Not a silver cup touched a table.
"And today, I, Arthur Snow, in the name of House Stark and all the North, return the lost Dark Sister to her rightful owners." My voice came out straight, cutting through the absolute silence of the Great Hall. The words hit the stone pillars and echoed off the high ceiling.
Rhaegar raised his face. His violet eyes left the blade and found mine. The prince's jaw was set beneath the skin. He extended his right hand. The tips of his fingers grazed the dark Valyrian steel.
At the Reach tables, the crack of metal against stone tore through the quiet. A silver cup rolled across the floor. Wine spread over the grey limestone, but no lord, knight, or lackey moved to stop the red liquid.
Ser Arthur Dayne let out a long, heavy breath through his nose. The white armor hissed as the chest emptied. The knight drove his sharp gaze directly into my face.
"The North delivers what the South believed swallowed by winter," Rhaegar said, his voice rasping lower in his throat.
The prince closed his fingers around the leather grip and raised Dark Sister from the chest. The dark steel reflected the torchlight for a moment. The narrow blade cut the air without making a sound.
Rhaegar raised the dark blade above his head. The torchlight struck the smoky pattern of the Valyrian steel, casting a long, jagged shadow over the limestone floor.
"Dark Sister returns to her rightful owners," Rhaegar declared, his voice echoing clean over the absolute silence, reaching the most distant tables. "In the name of House Targaryen and my father's kingdom, I thank you, Arthur Snow, and all of House Stark."
I gave a short nod, keeping my arms relaxed along my body and my spine straight.
The lords of the Reach and the Stormlands stayed frozen in their seats. Nobody whispered. The silence in the Great Hall weighed more than the iron of the throne behind the prince.
Elia's lips remained parted. The princess's chest rose and fell at a broken rhythm beneath the orange silk. Rhaella took a wide step away from the base of the throne. The queen's pale fingers released little Viserys's shoulder and gripped the hem of her own pale dress. Her gaze swept the steel's ripples from top to bottom before rising and locking on my features.
"The ice swallowed that blade before my own birth," Rhaella spoke, her voice coming out thin, cutting across the banquet's time and protocol. "Where was it, Arthur Snow? How was it found?"
I rested my left hand on Truth's pommel, feeling the cold sapphire against the leather of my glove.
"This hall holds many ears, Your Grace." I kept my voice straight and low, confined to the space of the steps. "Tonight belongs to the celebration of your house. The details of this recovery have no place in this moment."
Rhaegar lowered his right arm. The sword hissed as it cut the air. The prince gave a single nod and turned the narrow blade, settling the Valyrian metal back into the red suede cradle.
"He is right," Rhaegar declared, the metal clasps cracking as the prince pushed the carved lid down, hiding the Valyrian steel from the hall's view. "There will be a safe moment for those words. And I believe the king will insist on hearing this story himself."
Queen Rhaella gave a long nod. The woman's thin shoulders yielded a fraction of a centimeter beneath the pale silk.
"The Crown will owe a debt to Winterfell from this day," Rhaella murmured, her pale fingers smoothing the creases in her own dress. "And coins do not buy Valyrian steel. We will have to find another way to repay your House."
I bent my neck in a restricted military bow, keeping my boots firm on the limestone.
The master of ceremonies struck his iron staff against the stones. The sound of the bards resumed its rhythm on the left flank of the Great Hall. Rhaegar handed the carved wooden chest to Ser Arthur Dayne. The white knight pressed the structure against his breastplate and retreated into the throne's shadow.
I turned my back on the dais. I descended the stone steps in continuous strides. Perseu and the rest of the escort followed behind, their heavy soles marking the rhythm on the grey limestone.
The path back through the central corridor met a different reception. The lords of the Reach and the Stormlands no longer turned their faces to talk. Some fixed their gaze on Truth's sheath at my hip. Others measured the black leather and metal plates of my men's armor. No chair was pushed out to block our passage.
I sat in the high-backed chair. The rigid wood creaked.
"Arbor Gold," Kevin murmured, pulling a silver cup by its neck, swirling the thick golden liquid, and sniffing the rim. "Burns going down, but it does not taste like our ale."
Morghaz leaned his spear against the pillar stone and pulled an iron platter close. The smell of hot pork fat and roasted garlic rose through the air. He drove his knife into the meat and tore off a piece.
"Fat fills the belly the same." The warrior chewed. "Drink what they put on the table."
Belzakar filled his own cup and cut a piece of hard bread. Perseu kept both hands resting on his thighs, not touching the food. His eyes swept the main dais and the neighboring rows at regular intervals.
The banquet moved forward. The heat of the candelabras and the iron hearths rose, mixing the sweat of hundreds of guests with the smell of meat and spices.
The music changed tone. The drums fell silent. The harps and lutes settled into a rhythmic, continuous melody. Nobles began rising from the benches and walking toward the empty area at the center of the limestone for the first dance.
My eyes swept the side of the main dais. Ashara Dayne rested her back against the base of a pillar. The firelight struck the loose dark strands over her shoulders and the lavender dress. Three lords with Reach and Stormlands sigils were already walking toward her, straightening their silk doublets and quickening their pace.
I pressed my fingers against the table's edge. I pushed the chair back. The wood scraped on the stone.
I cut across the hall. My boot soles struck heavy on the limestone, breaking the servants' path. The foremost knight stopped his march, measured the sapphire on my sword's pommel at my hip, and pulled his shoulders back.
I stopped a step from Ashara. The smell of sweet oil took the air between us. She raised her chin. The violet eyes found my mismatched irises. The smile pulled at the fair skin of her face.
"The competition in the South gives up quickly," I said, following with my gaze the Reach knight who turned his back and returned to his own table with his head down.
"Yellow silk retreats fast when it sees a sword hilt," Ashara answered, her voice coming out low, confined to the distance between the two of us. She dropped her gaze down the dark leather of my chest and came back to my face. "I thought Northerners spent the night leaning against the wall, drinking."
"Only when the music is bad."
I pulled the fabric of my left glove with my teeth. I took the leather off my hand and dropped the piece on the empty oak table beside me. I extended my bare fingers.
"A dance."
Ashara did not look away. She raised her arm and set her warm fingers over my palm. The contact of skin sent a dry shock through the base of my wrist.
"Let us see if you know the rhythm," she murmured.
I closed my fingers around hers. I pulled Ashara's weight in one continuous motion and guided her straight to the center of the grey limestone floor.
The harps set the beat. I placed my right hand on Ashara's waist. The lavender silk of the dress gave under the pressure, letting her body heat pass through to my palm. She raised her free hand and rested her fingers at the join of my dark leather shoulder.
The rhythm called for a turn. I pulled Ashara to the side. My boots struck heavy on the limestone, marking the exact time of the music.
Her skirt swept the floor. The smell of sweet oil covered the fat smoke from the tables. The violet eyes held the contact, tracking the rotation of the hall.
"You do not lose the beat," Ashara said, her breath grazing the side of my jaw. "But you step as though you mean to crack the stone."
"The floors of King's Landing are uneven," I answered, pulling her waist closer at the break in the melody.
Ashara laughed through her nose. The sound muffled against the lute's beat. She slid her thumb along the edge of my collar, her nail lightly scratching the bare skin of my neck.
"The floors are perfect," she murmured, her gaze shifting a fraction of a second toward the tables before returning to my face. "Unlike the mood of the Reach. There are three lords over there spilling wine on their own clothes just from looking at your boots."
"Let them spill."
The music accelerated toward its final measures. Ashara turned under my raised arm. The fabric swept out in a clean circle. She came back facing me in the next movement, stopping the impact by pressing her hand directly against my leather breastplate. Her chest rose and fell quickly. Her lips opened, drawing in the cooler air from the center of the hall.
The high note of the harp cut the space. I planted my feet on the stone, stopping the dance at once. The sound of hundreds of clapping hands cracked along the sides of the Great Hall.
Ashara stepped back half a pace. The cooler air of the hall filled the space between us.
"The North keeps good time," Ashara said, her volume dropping, confined to the distance between our faces. "I did not know Northerners danced so well. Another of the lies Southerners like to spread?"
"And what would the other one be?" I asked.
"That you are all ugly," she answered at once.
Her violet eyes descended down the plates of my dark leather chest, assessed the belt buckle, and came back up to my face. Her iris locked on mine. Ashara's breathing slowed. The curve of her lips lost its tension, settling into a straight, contained line.
"But from what I can see..." Ashara tilted her head millimeters to the right. "...perhaps that is just one more of the lies."
I gave a short nod.
Ashara turned. The lavender silk swept the stone. She walked back toward the base of the main dais, shoulders aligned, passing straight by the two Reach lords waiting at the edge of the floor.
I turned my back to the center. My boots struck the limestone on the way to the supporting pillar. I pulled the chair and sat. I stretched my arm, picked up the glove left on the wood, and pulled it over my left hand. The hard leather rasped against my knuckles.
"The entire Reach watched your feet," Morghaz noted, scratching the tip of his knife on the iron platter and dropping a piece of dark meat in his mouth.
Three men blocked the light of the nearest hearth before Kevin could refill his own cup. The sigil of twin towers occupied the center of their dark blue and grey wool doublets. Riverlands lords. The one at the front, a man with narrow shoulders and a receding jaw, stopped a step from the edge of our table.
"The Crown loses its standards when it mixes the hall," the Frey said, his watery eyes fixing on my face without looking at Perseu or Morghaz. "Northern bastards and sellswords sitting on the same limestone as lords of blood. The smell of wet fur ruins the banquet."
Kevin put his elbows on the table. The archer leaned his face forward and sniffed his own doublet.
"If the smell bothers you, Frey," Kevin said, his voice scraping calm and routine. "It may be because your mouth is too close to your own nose."
The riverlord's skin stretched. His cheekbones flushed under the torchlight. He dropped his right hand and closed his fingers on the sword pommel at his belt. The guard metal rasped against the leather sheath. Morghaz stopped chewing. Perseu shifted his boot under the table, his right hand dropping straight for the dagger at his leg.
"If a palm of steel is drawn at my sister's wedding," a drawling voice with a strong accent hissed behind the Frey. "I will cut your hands off and make you swallow your own fingers."
The lord locked his neck. A man with short dark hair and a pointed face stopped half a step behind his shoulder. He wore orange silk layered over thin leather plates. Behind him, four olive-skinned guards formed a wall, bearing the sun pierced by a spear on their chests. The Dornish leader kept his right hand relaxed on the hilt of his own short blade.
The Frey's face lost its color at once. His fingers released the sword pommel immediately. He measured the colors of House Martell, swallowed, and took two quick steps back. The three men from the Twins turned sideways and cut through the empty chairs, disappearing fast through the rows at the back of the hall.
The Dornishman watched their backs before returning his attention to the table. He pulled the empty chair beside Kevin and dropped his weight into it. The orange fabric slid on the seat.
"Oberyn Martell," he said, the corner of his mouth rising, showing white teeth. He inclined his head in my direction. "That dark Valyrian steel necklace sat well on Elia's neck. The exact gift to sour the tongue of the South."