I rested my cup on the wood. The silver base cracked against the rough table.
"The South needs something hard to swallow from time to time," I replied, running my thumb along the smooth metal rim while holding his gaze.
Oberyn laughed, a loose sound that blended with the distant noise of the bards. He drove the tip of a table knife into the wood with a dry thud. The prince's dark eyes gleamed under the flickering candlelight as he leaned forward. The smell of crushed pepper and wine rose from his clothes.
"Tywin Lannister has been looking for a Valyrian steel blade for his house forever," the Dornishman remarked. "That sour old lion of the Rock would offer rivers of gold for a weapon like that, and you simply handed it over to the heir to the throne."
Kevin clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, leaning his back against the rigid wooden chair.
"We only make deliveries, Prince," the archer said in a drawling, bored tone. "Lannister gold doesn't pay for our trouble."
The four Dornish guards standing two steps from our table stiffened their postures. Oberyn raised his left arm in a loose gesture, telling his men to relax without even looking back.
"My sister has a soft heart," Oberyn murmured, his voice dropping an octave to blend with the sound of the lutes. "She saw a sincere gift from a boy of the North. I see a dangerous move on the board. You threw a legendary sword into the middle of a lit bonfire. You chose a side in the silent war."
I pulled my knife from my belt and speared a chunk of meat from the platter Morghaz was trying to pull toward himself.
"I don't serve the South," I said, bringing the piece to my mouth and feeling the coarse salt crack between my teeth. "My side ends where the snow begins."
The Dornishman held my gaze for a few seconds, assessing my features with the coldness of a viper. Then, suddenly, the tension in his face crumbled. Oberyn threw his head back and let out a loud laugh that tore through the stiff murmur of the neighboring tables.
"You are as hard as the ice of your land, Snow," Oberyn said, wiping a drop from the corner of his eye. He relaxed his shoulders against the chair and stretched his legs. "But the gods were generous. Valyrian blood with the tight face of the Starks. It's a lethal combination. The women of the Reach are already knocking over wine cups because of you. And, to be honest, even I got distracted by that difference in your eye colors. If you ever tire of the North's cold, know that Dorne has much warmer beds to offer."
Kevin choked on his wine. The archer struck his own chest twice, coughing, and stared at the Dornishman.
"If the prince likes ice boulders, he should visit the Wall," Kevin rasped, clearing his hoarse throat. "There's a seven-hundred-foot one up there. It'll be the romance of your life."
Oberyn let out another heavy laugh, slapping his open hand on the table. He picked up the jug from the center and filled his own cup to the brim.
Morghaz chewed a piece of chicken bone and spat the hard part onto the iron plate with a crack.
"He talks a lot of nonsense," the warrior pointed his dirty knife at Oberyn. "But he drinks like a man. The rest of this castle drinks like a bird."
"In Sunspear, we drain the barrels before the music ends," Oberyn replied, raising the silver cup toward Morghaz.
The noise at our table grew. The sound of deep laughter and cups striking wood swallowed the polished rhythm of the harps around us. In the front rows, Lord Mace Tyrell twisted his thick nose and curled his upper lip, watching the Prince of Dorne fraternize with mercenaries and a bastard. Near the base of the main dais, Ashara Dayne spun her full cup in her hands, a wide smile pulling at her face as she looked at our group.
"Let them look," Oberyn said loudly, noticing the turned necks of Tyrell and the Storm lords. The Dornishman raised his cup in the middle of our group. "Snakes and wolves know how to throw a party. The lions and roses can go to the Seven Hells."
I struck my cup against his. The metal rang sharp and wine splattered on the rough wood.
"To the Seven Hells," I repeated, draining the rest of the golden liquid.
Oberyn lowered his empty cup. His dark eyes drifted from the distant tables and fixed on Belzakar, who chewed hard bread in continuous movements. Then the prince assessed Morghaz's broad shoulders. The relaxed curve of his lips straightened into the cold assessment of a fighter.
"You two," Oberyn pointed at the warriors. "Dark skin, silent as stones and sitting straight as posts even at a full banquet. Astapor. You are Unsullied."
Belzakar froze his hand in the air. The warrior drove his empty gaze directly at the Dornishman's forehead.
"Former Unsullied," I corrected, leaning my forearms on the table.
Oberyn's mouth opened slightly. He slapped his open hand on the oak with force, making the silver fruit bowl tremble.
"By the Seven Hells," the Dornishman exclaimed, his voice carrying a feverish rhythm. "I spent five years riding across Essos. Fought in the Disputed Lands, crossed steel with mercenaries. And once, I fought an Unsullied guard in Volantis. The bastard almost took my ear off." He touched his own right ear, laughing through his nose. "I want a rematch. I need to test my spear against you two. Tomorrow. In the training yard. Blunted wood and light shield."
Morghaz let out a rough grunt.
"I don't play with blunted wood, snake prince," Morghaz retorted, narrowing his dark eyes. "If I push my spear in your direction, I pierce your flesh. We don't know how to play."
"I'll pay in gold for the risk," Oberyn shot back immediately, showing his teeth. "A great deal of gold."
I adjusted the strap of Truth's sheath on my hip and pushed my chair back. The wood scraped loud on the grey limestone, cutting the conversation short.
"The choice is yours," I declared to my men, stepping back. "You march at my side out of loyalty. Chains and coin do not bind you here. My command holds on the battlefield. If you want to break wood with the Prince of Dorne, do as you wish."
Morghaz blinked slowly. The dark warrior cracked the thick bones of his neck and nodded. Belzakar cracked his knuckles in silence.
Oberyn's wide smile confirmed the bet.
"Enough of the South for today," I announced, turning my back on the main dais.
We walked toward the heavy oak doors at the far end of the hall. The outer corridor swallowed the sound of the harps. Before we could advance through the dark gallery, a broad shadow blocked the passage.
The dense smell of rice powder and lavender crushed the banquet's aroma. The man's purple silk attire fell to the floor, hiding the soft shoes that made no sound on the stone.
"The entire court is whispering about the Northerner who returned the dragon's teeth," Lord Varys murmured in his velvet voice, keeping his hands tucked inside his wide sleeves. His smooth bald head reflected the orange light of the torches fixed to the walls.
Kevin crossed his arms and measured the eunuch.
"We don't charge for whispers," the archer replied, flat.
"The king regrets not having witnessed your demonstration of loyalty at the dais, Arthur Snow," Varys continued, ignoring Kevin entirely and focusing on me. "His Grace has a very particular fascination with Valyrian steel. And, precisely because of that, he desires to see you. Tomorrow, when the sun touches the training yard. Aerys Targaryen will insist on thanking you personally."
Perseu locked his jaw at my back.
"I will be there," I confirmed, keeping my tone straight.
"Excellent," Varys murmured. He turned his broad body, opening the corridor path. "The Red Keep is a fascinating labyrinth at night, Snow. But be careful with the inner corridors. The castle is old, and certain stones tend to fall on the heads of those who walk in the dark."
The eunuch glided into the corridor's darkness, the purple silk vanishing like smoke. The night air cooled the sweat on the back of my neck immediately. The torches fixed in the iron brackets flickered, casting irregular light over the stones.
"Formation," I ordered in a low voice.
I did not need to repeat it. Perseu took the vanguard, his steps silent on the stone. Belzakar covered the rear, while Kevin and Morghaz flanked my shoulders. The leather of our armour creaked in continuous friction.
We turned right into a narrow gallery. High, unglazed windows let the wind invade the corridor, carrying the strong smell of salt from Blackwater Bay.
"Enormous place," Morghaz muttered, his deep voice echoing on the smooth walls. "Enormous, empty and without my spear. The perfect place to take a knife in the ribs."
"Stay quiet and watch the corners," Kevin hissed. The archer kept his left hand tightly closed around the hilt of his belt dagger.
I stopped at the top of a spiral staircase. Darkness dominated the steps below. The moonlight barely touched the worn stone. A dragging sound broke the silence on the lower floor. Cloth brushing stone. Short, hurried steps.
Perseu bent his knees immediately, pressing his body against the wall. Belzakar turned back, blocking the corridor we had come from with his broad shoulders.
"Who's there?" a thin, trembling voice echoed from the bottom of the staircase.
A page boy. The boy held a brass candelabra in both hands, climbing the steps with shaking legs. He wore a doublet in Lannister colors, a dark red and gold that seemed too large for his size. When the weak candlelight lit up the worn metal plates of our clothes and Morghaz's scar, the boy's eyes went wide. Hot wax dripped onto his fingers, but he did not retreat.
"I lost my way from the kitchens, my lords," the page stuttered, pulling his neck in.
"Go down and turn left, boy," Kevin pointed with his chin, relaxing the hand that held the dagger. "The smell of roasted meat comes from there."
The boy did not wait for a second order. He turned his back and ran down the steps, the leather soles hurrying until the candlelight vanished around the curve.
"I thought the Lion of the Rock hadn't come to the party," Morghaz commented, resuming his walk with a straight back.
"Tywin didn't come," I replied, descending the first step. "But his eyes are spread throughout this castle."
We reached the temporary quarters assigned to us. It was a low, rustic stone structure, isolated from the royal luxury wings. I pushed the solid wooden door open with my shoulder. The room smelled of dust and straw.
"Sleep with one eye open," I said, loosening the buckles of my breastplate. The plate fell on the straw bed with a dull thud. "The king wants to see me at dawn."
Kevin threw his dagger onto the blanket and sat down to pull off his limestone-dirty boots.
"Mad kings, old swords and gossiping spiders," the archer sighed, lying down with crossed arms on the straw. "Tomorrow we'll find out if these people's gold is worth the risk of losing our necks."
I sat on the edge of the bed, keeping Truth's sheath on my lap. I looked at the narrow window. The sky above King's Landing was completely dark.
"It will be," I murmured.
The sun had barely touched the highest towers of the Red Keep when the solid wooden door creaked.
Perseu was already on his feet. The fighter had not removed his boots during the night. He peered through the thick crack and turned his face toward me, adjusting the leather strap on his own wrist.
"Two White Cloaks in the corridor," Perseu reported in a rough voice. "They are waiting."
I rose from the hard straw, feeling the muscles of my back protest against the thin mattress. I fastened the buckles of my dark leather breastplate in automatic movements and fixed Truth's sheath on my left hip.
"Stay here," I ordered my men, adjusting the plates of my gloves. "If the king wanted an audience with a small army, the Spider would have given warning."
Kevin stretched his long shoulders on the camp bed. The archer threw his dagger into the air and caught it by the handle with a quick wrist spin.
"Try not to lose your head, boss," Kevin remarked, a thin smile cutting across his sleepy face. "We didn't march to this end of the world to go back without you."
I gave a short nod and opened the door.
Ser Jonothor Darry and Ser Barristan Selmy waited in the stone corridor. Their white cloaks were immaculate, an aggressive contrast against the dark, dirty walls of that wing of the castle. Neither Kingsguard knight said a word. Jonothor simply turned his back and began to march.
I followed the two through the limestone labyrinth. The castle was still asleep. We crossed empty courtyards and open galleries where the cold wind from Blackwater Bay entered without mercy.
The main training yard reeked of packed earth and old sweat. The morning light painted the high walls with a faint orange tone.
In the center of the soft sandy space, a heavy oak chair had been placed. Aerys Targaryen sat there.
The King of the Seven Kingdoms was a frail, bony mass sunk beneath yards of red silk. The platinum hair fell past his shoulders in a dirty, knotted tangle. The monarch's nails were long, curved and yellow as claws. Dark crusts from old wounds marked his pale skin.
Behind the chair, Queen Rhaella Targaryen and Prince Rhaegar had been with him since the start of the morning. Rhaella kept her pale hands joined in front of her body, the knuckles white from the force of the grip. Rhaegar wore a black boiled leather tunic, and Dark Sister's dark sheath was fastened firmly to his left hip. Ser Arthur Dayne stood rigid just behind, his hand resting near Dawn's pommel, while Lord Varys remained a few steps to the right, his white hands tucked in his purple sleeves.
I stopped three steps away. My boots sank into the loose sand. I inclined my neck in a strict bow.
Aerys did not respond. The king's violet eyes were wide and bloodshot at the edges. He ignored my face. The king's feverish gaze was fixed on the black leather sheath at my belt.
"The Spider said you brought dragon steel for my house," Aerys whispered, his voice thin in a wet hiss that scratched his throat. The king gripped the chair arm so hard the skin of his fingers stretched. "You handed my ancestor's sword to my son. Where did you steal Dark Sister, bastard?"
Queen Rhaella stepped forward, her voice tense.
"You said in the hall that the story of the recovery would come later," the queen pressed, fixing her eyes on my features. "The moment has come, Northerner. The sword vanished from the world when Brynden Rivers marched to the Wall."
I adjusted my weight on the loose sand.
"I found the blade beyond the Wall with a friend," I replied, keeping my face still to protect the secret of the ancient man hidden beneath the weirwood roots. "We were hunting in an old ruin buried in the deep ice."
Rhaegar took half a step, crossing his arms over the leather tunic.
"What friend?" the prince asked, narrowing his pale eyes.
"A free scout named Corin," I lied, inventing the name without hesitation. "He froze to death two moons after the hunt. The ice beyond the Wall doesn't forgive novices."
Rhaella and Rhaegar exchanged a quick glance. Aerys struck his plastered claws on the oak of the chair, drawing attention back to himself. The king's feverish gaze dropped from my face directly to the sheath pressed against my belt.
"What are you hiding there?" Aerys demanded. The monarch leaned his thin torso forward. "Is there more sorcery fastened to your hip to bleed me? Show the blade, bastard of the snow!"
I rested my left hand on the sheath and held the sapphire pommel with my right. The movement was slow. Ser Barristan and Ser Arthur Dayne tightened their fingers on their own swords in the same second, their eyes tracking the arc of my arm.
I drew the weapon. The Valyrian steel hissed against the lined wood. The narrow blade cut through the weak morning light, gleaming with a deep, continuous blue tone.
Aerys froze. The king's chest stopped rising beneath the red silk. He blinked quickly, assessing the undulating pattern of the blue metal without being able to identify the piece.
"It is dragon steel, but what blade is this?" the king asked, his voice rising in a hysterical tone. "Who sent you here with this iron?"
"My mother left me the blade, Your Grace," I replied, pointing Truth's tip toward the earth. "She was a Rogare. She descended from my grandmother's lineage, Igrane Rogare."
Aerys furrowed his wrinkle-lined brow. The name from Lys seemed only to confuse and further irritate his mind.
Lord Varys stepped forward two paces, coming out of the shadow of the stone wall. The eunuch ignored the king's rage spasm. His small, shrewd eyes fixed on the blue gleam of the steel. The soft hands came out of the wide sleeves of the attire.
"Truth," Varys murmured, his velvet voice cutting through the cold air with precision. He tilted his smooth bald head millimeters to the side. "The sword of Rogar Targaryen. Moredo Rogare carried the weapon in Essos before it vanished into the markets of the Free Cities. I heard stories about its fate in the alleys of Lys, Your Grace, but I never imagined the winter was hiding this jewel."
Aerys turned his thin neck with a dry crack, staring at the master of whisperers.
"Rogare?" the king repeated. He spat in the courtyard sand. A thin, hysterical laugh escaped through the rotten teeth. "The bankers of Lys. The arrogant lineage that thought it could buy the Iron Throne with gold! Larra Rogare dug her claws into our house's bed, lay with a dragon and thought she would rule the world."
Aerys released the chair arms and pointed his yellow nail at my face, trembling with fury.
"They infected the dragon's lineage in the past," the king whispered, his voice faltering. "And now the Lys leftovers lie with the wolves of the North and bring blue swords back to my courtyard. It is a plot. Blood magic, ice and old coins conspiring against the Crown!"
The monarch rose in a clumsy jolt, nearly tripping over the red silk.
"Enough!" Aerys shouted, stamping his feet in the shifting sand. "I am tired of breathing the same air as this bastard. He smells of dog fur and winter. Get him out of my sight before I have this entire courtyard burned!"
Ser Barristan Selmy and Ser Jonothor Darry advanced in the same second, holding the king by the elbows and guiding the trembling body toward the inner tunnels of the Red Keep. Lord Varys followed the group just behind, the purple silk vanishing in the shadows like a trail of smoke.
The courtyard dust settled. Only I, Rhaegar and Ser Arthur Dayne remained, the latter still standing like a white stone sentinel.
Rhaegar waited for the sound of his father's steps to completely disappear in the limestone corridor. He let the air out in a long exhale. His shoulders dropped a fraction beneath the black leather.
"I apologize for my father, Arthur," Rhaegar murmured. The prince fixed his violet eyes on the sand stirred by the king's boots. "His mind no longer inhabits this world. You brought back our house's greatest legacy from the ice and receive threats as payment. I am ashamed of that."
I shifted my weight to my left leg and relaxed the tension in my shoulders.
"I don't march in search of gratitude, my prince," I replied. "The North teaches you to ignore foul winds. The steel is where it should be, and that is enough."
The corner of Rhaegar's lips rose in a tight, measured smile. He brought his hand to Dark Sister's leather hilt and drew the Valyrian blade slowly, letting the dark steel sing in the cold morning air.
"The royal order wants you away from King's Landing from today," Rhaegar declared, turning his wrist to test the balance of Visenya's weapon for the first time in daylight. He took two steps toward me and stopped in the loose sand. "But before you return to the snow, I want to see what the North can do. A training bout. No heavy armour."
"Accepted," I replied, raising Truth's weight to the level of my breastplate.
Rhaegar did not wait for the wind to turn. He advanced. Sand sprayed under leather boots. The thin blade forged for a woman's hand found its ideal speed in the prince's contained strength. He cut from above downward in a quick arc.
I turned my wrist. The impact sounded like a cracked bell in the limestone courtyard. Valyrian steel against Valyrian steel locked with a sharp hiss.
Rhaegar's technique was exceptional. He used the recoil of the defense, turned his heels and chained a direct thrust at the height of my ribs. The relentless training of Southern masters had shaped a lethal and extremely efficient swordsman. Dark Sister amplified that natural talent, allowing him to switch the direction of his attack in fractions of a second.
I stepped back half a pace. The dark tip tore the air a finger from my tunic.
The heir did not break rhythm. He used his own momentum to seek my neck in a continuous movement. I pulled Truth upward and deflected the dark steel with the flat of my blade. The prince's force weighed against my arm, but I kept my feet planted in the sand.
Rhaegar's speed was impressive by court standards, but his rhythm was too methodical. Readable. He stepped back and attacked with a sequence of three clean cuts: left flank, shoulder and knee.
I did not need much force to neutralize the assault. I batted the first aside with a short turn. Dodged the second by leaning my torso back and parried the third by bringing Truth's tip down. The effort demanded little of me. My breathing remained measured, while Rhaegar's chest rose and fell rapidly under the black leather.
The ease of my defense frustrated the prince. He tried to force an opening by raising his elbow too high to gain angle on a downward blow.
That was his last move.
I stepped firm in the sand, ignoring the descending blade. I advanced directly into the center of his exposed guard. I struck the sapphire pommel of Truth with surgical precision against the joint of Rhaegar's right wrist.
The bone cracked. The prince let out a torn grunt and his fingers opened by reflex of pain. Dark Sister slipped from his hand and fell in the soft sand with a dull thud.
In the same second, I turned my arm and froze the movement. Truth's blue tip stopped a millimeter from Rhaegar's adam's apple.
The entire courtyard plunged into absolute silence. The heir to the throne froze, his breathing striking heavy against the cold metal. Sweat ran down the platinum temple. He looked at the blade at his own throat, his pupils dilating as he measured the distance to the steel.
I lowered the sword. The blue steel hissed as it dropped to the side of my leg.
"You have the technique, my prince," I said, stepping back and sheathing Truth in the leather with a dry click. "But the South trains to win tournaments. The North trains to come home alive."
Rhaegar let the air out in a long breath. His shoulders collapsed under the dark leather. The prince dropped his guard completely and let out a loose laugh. He stepped back, rubbing the joint of his right wrist.
"You are right, Arthur," Rhaegar admitted, picking Dark Sister up from the ground and cleaning the sand from the steel. "In the tournaments of the Reach, striking the wrist with the sword's pommel would be considered an offense to honor. On a battlefield, it is the move that would leave me bleeding in the mud."
The sound of enamelled metal plates cut through the silence.
Ser Arthur Dayne descended the step of the covered gallery. The knight's heavy boots stepped onto the soft sand. The Sword of the Morning undid the silver clasp on his chest and let the white cloak slip from his shoulders, falling onto an empty stand. He walked toward us, his sharp gaze assessing my posture.
"The prince has the flawless technique of King's Landing's masters," Dayne said, his deep voice echoing off the walls. He stopped at exactly four steps distance. The right hand rose to his back. "But the Kingsguard trains to protect the crown against whoever crosses the gates of this castle. We don't fight for points at tournaments, Northerner."
Rhaegar sheathed Dark Sister. The Targaryen heir took three steps back, opening the center of the arena. He crossed his arms, the tight curve of his lips returning.
Dayne drew Dawn. The sound of the large blade sliding from the sheath was heavy. The knight spun the weapon in the air. The metal, pale as milk glass, emitted a ghostly gleam. Ser Arthur lowered the tip toward the sand and bent his knees slightly.
"Will you allow me to test the North's mettle, Snow?" Dayne asked. The muscles of his face were rigid, the eyes unblinking.
I raised my right arm. Truth's blue steel rose at the same moment.
"You may test it," I replied, planting my heels. "But don't expect me to strike only your wrist."
Dayne did not smile. He advanced.
The Dornishman's speed cancelled the previous pattern. Dawn cut the air without making a sound, aiming at the side of my neck. I raised Truth. The clash of the blades echoed through the courtyard like dry thunder. The force sent a shock directly into the bones of my forearm. Dayne used the recoil and drove a low thrust. I blocked by bringing my tip down, but the knight was no longer there.
I stepped back, feeling the wind scrape the leather of my tunic.
Ser Arthur Dayne's reflexes bordered on the absurd. He read the tension in my shoulders and anticipated my movement. Even in the Elysian Fields, the Sword of the Morning would have been considered one of the most formidable warriors ever to wield steel.
For the first time in this world, I stopped holding back the strength of my body. I tightened my fingers on the sapphire pommel and advanced.
The courtyard became a blur of blue and white light. The duel dragged on for uninterrupted minutes. We destroyed two wooden stands, our boots digging craters in the soft earth. Dayne was flawless. But I could see the bottom of his technique. I spotted three clear openings where Truth's tip could have ended the confrontation.
I ignored all three.
The blood ran hot in my veins. The adrenaline numbed the burning in my lungs. I deliberately extended the exchange of blows, answering each of his perfect attacks with a millimeter-precise defense.
We locked blades in the center of the courtyard. Dayne pushed the weight of his body against me, searching for any sign of fatigue. I held the force without yielding a centimeter.
"Enough!" Rhaegar's voice cut through the sound of scraping metal. The prince raised his right hand. "The entire Keep woke up from this noise. I declare a draw before you two bring down the walls of this courtyard."
Dayne halted the pressure of his arm immediately. He stepped back two long paces. The knight's chest rose and fell hard. Sweat ran down the sides of his lined face, dripping onto the white breastplate.
"The North hides monsters beneath the snow, Arthur Snow," Dayne murmured. The voice rasped with the effort, carrying absolute respect.
"The South has its giants too, Ser Arthur," I replied. I sheathed the blue steel with a dry click.
"Some men make friends sharing wine," Dayne said, sliding Dawn back into its sheath and extending his right arm toward me. "Others, crossing blades."
"It will be a pleasure to be called a friend by the Sword of the Morning," I replied.
I closed my hand directly on Dayne's forearm. The knight returned the heavy grip. I released his arm and wiped the sweat from my forehead with my palm.
The sound of crossed voices and steps on stone drew attention to the courtyard entrance.
Oberyn Martell led the walk with loose, confident steps. The Dornishman wore the same wide smile from the previous night. Accompanying the prince, Morghaz and Belzakar walked in silence, their spines rigid. Kevin dragged his boots just behind them.
Princess Elia Targaryen walked in the center of the group, lifting the hem of her silk dress. At her side, Ashara Dayne kept pace, her eyes sweeping the courtyard until they locked in my direction.
When our gazes crossed, my smile widened. Ashara did not avert her violet pupils. She held the contact and returned the smile in a slow, sustained curve of her lips.
Oberyn stopped at the edge of the sand. He looked at the churned ground and the two stands turned to firewood.
"The North wakes up much earlier than Dorne to start breaking things," Oberyn declared loudly, pointing at the debris.
"Faster than heavy, my lady," Ser Arthur Dayne replied to Elia, approaching his own sister and fixing his eyes on Oberyn. "I advise the Prince of Dorne to keep his spears sheathed today. Snow has already humiliated us enough for a single morning."
I shook my head.
"The courtyard dust dried out your vision, Ser Arthur," I replied, maintaining a relaxed posture. "The bout ended in a fair draw. If the exchange of blows had lasted a few more minutes, your blade would have struck my chest before I had the breath to raise my guard."
Dayne did not retort, only gave a short nod. I turned my body and planted my boots in the sand.
"Princess Elia," I said, offering the first bow of the day. Then I turned my face to the Dornishman. "Prince Oberyn. I apologize for the sound of swords before breakfast. King Aerys demanded my presence in the courtyard before the sun rose. It did not seem prudent to keep the monarch waiting."
Elia nodded gently.
"Duty to the Crown always precedes the castle's sleep, Arthur Snow," the princess replied.
Oberyn rubbed his hands, pulling a pair of leather gloves from his belt. His black eyes fixed directly on my escort.
"The nobles' training is over," Oberyn declared loudly. "The time has come to see if Astapor's infantry can manage with blunted wood. Morghaz, Belzakar. Our bet from last night is still on."
The two former Unsullied remained frozen at the stone edge. The hard gazes of both drifted from Oberyn and fixed on my face, waiting in silence.
I adjusted the strap of Truth's sheath on my hip and took two steps back, clearing the center of the arena. I gave a short nod.
Morghaz blinked slowly. The dark warrior cracked the thick bones of his neck and descended the limestone step. The heavy boots sank into the soft sand. Belzakar followed just behind, cracking his knuckles in absolute silence.
Oberyn's fierce smile split his face. The Dornishman marched directly to the weapon rack leaning against the wall. He ignored the longswords. He pulled a polished ash spear, tested the balance by spinning the shaft with a single hand and planted his stance on the south side of the arena. The wind tousled his orange clothes.