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The gates of the Red Keep rose before him like the jaws of some great beast, crimson towers catching the dawn sun in a blaze that made the stones almost bleed. Arthur's horse stepped softly on the polished courtyard cobbles, hooves muffled by the hushed air that seemed to cling to the Red Keep as if aware of every visitor's intent. A line of Gold Cloaks snapped to attention, their armor glinting, hands resting near blades. Murmurs trailed behind him as he dismounted, sliding Rickard Stark's letter from its seal, presenting it to the nearest captain.
"From Lord Rickard Stark," Arthur said evenly, voice low but firm. "Summoning me for audience with His Grace, King Aerys II."
The captain frowned, heavy brows knitting as he took the parchment. "Stark's men ride north, not south. What business brings one of them to the Red Keep? And tell me, stranger—what is your name, and from where do you come?"
Arthur's gaze did not waver. "Arthur. I am of Winterfell."
The captain turned the parchment over, tracing the Stark direwolf pressed deep into wax. "These are true seals… yet I have not seen their like at court. How do I know you are what you claim?"
"You do not," Arthur said simply. "But the parchment does. Test the seals with your master-at-arms, if your caution is greater than your King's need."
The man's lips tightened, but the weight in Arthur's voice allowed no further challenge. After a pause, he nodded. "Very well. Make sure you cause no trouble here, northerner, or you'll answer to every spear in this yard."
Arthur inclined his head once, a gesture neither servile nor defiant. "Your spears will not need to wake."
The gates creaked open wider than before, the courtyard swallowing him into the pulse of the Red Keep.
Arthur's eyes swept the space as he passed, cataloging the stares, the whispering courtiers, and the soldiers stationed along the battlements. Curiosity, skepticism, and wariness flickered across each face. Even the smallest gestures — a child's peeking from behind a nursemaid, a foot turned subtly aside in caution — were noted. Every detail mapped, every potential threat or ally cataloged.
Marble courtyards stretched onward, fountains tinkling with water that smelled faintly of salt and smoke. Gold Cloaks marched along the perimeter, halting Arthur only to nod politely and step aside. The clatter of boots echoed off the stone walls, mixing with the distant wails of merchants outside and the hum of whispered secrets inside.
Court whispers began to circle. "His face cannot be more than seventeen," one courtier murmured. "Barely more than a boy."
"Yet the size… look at him," another said under her breath, voice quivering slightly. "Broad-shouldered, too strong for one so young."
Children of Rhaella's household and the young prince Rhaegar's siblings peeked from behind columns, eyes wide. Even Aerys' own youngest watched with curiosity, tilting heads to study the new arrival. Arthur took note of them all — their positions, their proximity, the subtle cues of interest and caution.
Arthur entered the throne antechamber, the vaulted ceilings swallowing the echo of his boots. Before him, King Aerys II sat upon the throne, a chair too high for comfort, eyes bright and manic, scanning the room as if every shadow might harbor treason. Around him, the Kingsguard formed a silent circle, white cloaks brushing the stone floor, swords within easy reach, their presence a living shield of steel.
Arthur's gaze swept the knights systematically, cataloging them as he moved:
Jaime Lannister, golden-haired and confident, leaned with the arrogance of youth, the boy-knight whose skill was already whispered of in taverns and barracks alike. Every movement was casual, yet Arthur noted the subtle tension beneath the bravado, the eagerness of a boy raised on stories of glory.
Ser Barristan Selmy, calm and watchful, radiated the quiet authority of decades spent surviving wars, betrayals, and court intrigues. His eyes, steady and assessing, flicked toward Arthur with a veteran's practiced caution.
Ser Mandon Moore, fingers hovering near his hilt, exuded vigilance and impatience, a younger man whose loyalty was strong but whose judgment was still untested in true peril.
Ser Borros Blount and Ser Arys Oakheart moved with deliberate, measured grace, eyes flicking to Arthur in small, calculated increments, each a silent assessment, each a guardian whose presence reminded him of the ever-present threat of death in the Red Keep.
Arthur cataloged every detail: posture, breathing, the subtle shift of weight, the angle of each hand near a hilt. The room itself seemed charged, the air taut with anticipation.
And then, last of all, his eyes fell upon Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning. Even across the room, the aura of mastery was undeniable: the stillness of a man whose blade had felled men before thought could form, whose stance carried the weight of legend. Dayne's hand rested lightly near the hilt of his sword Dawn, his presence silent but undeniable, a force that measured the bounds of danger in the chamber.
Arthur's fingers brushed Reaper, strapped at his hip. He felt the pull again — a subtle tug, a nudge in the arc of its blade, as though the sword itself longed for something beyond the ordinary. He had felt it earlier in the courtyard, a stirring that sharpened his senses, made him alert in ways he could not yet name.
"You," the king said, leaning forward, eyes glittering. "Rickard Stark summons you, and you arrive here like… a warrior. Show us your skill. Let us see if the North sends a true warrior—or only words!"
Arthur's fingers brushed Reaper, strapped at his hip. He felt the pull again — a subtle tug, a nudge in the arc of its blade, as though the sword itself longed for something beyond the ordinary. He had felt it earlier in the courtyard, a stirring that made him alert in ways he could not name.
"Perhaps, Your Grace," Varys said smoothly, voice soft but precise, "the young man, having traveled so far from Winterfell, might find firmer footing if granted a day to settle. Today is… unseasoned. His mind still adjusts to the weight of this court, his body untested beneath so many eyes. A brief delay could transform the demonstration into one worthy of your notice, and the North's loyalty and courage would shine more convincingly."
Aerys's eyes glittered, sharp and brittle. "Very well, Tomorrow, boy, you will face my Kingsguard — Jaime Lannister!" He threw back his head and laughed, wild and maniacal. "Finally, he has some use! Tywin Lannister's only heir, sworn to me, and he will wait no longer!"
Jaime shifted uneasily, the weight of the King's gaze pressing down. His golden hair caught the torchlight, but his jaw tightened, betraying the unease he usually masked with youthful arrogance.
Aerys leaned forward, eyes glittering, voice sharp as broken glass. "You can do it, right, boy? Face this Northman tomorrow, as a true Kingsguard should?"
Jaime swallowed, the words catching in his throat for a heartbeat, and then he straightened. "I… I will, Your Grace," he said, voice firm despite the tension, though every inch of him betrayed the nervous calculation behind the words.
Arthur nodded once, silent, recording the subtle manipulation. Varys' intervention might be useful later — a sliver of advantage in the midst of chaos.
A quiet attendant stepped forward, scroll in hand. "Your chambers, my lord," he said, bowing slightly. "High in the Red Keep, overlooking the inner courtyard. Modest, but secure. Maids and servants have been assigned to your needs."
Arthur's gaze flicked to Varys, who stood nearby, hands folded, expression neutral. "They will see you have everything required," Varys murmured softly, voice precise, almost conspiratorial. "Food, water, and comfort enough to rest. Yet comfort can be dangerous if it dulls the senses."
"I will manage," Arthur replied evenly, his mind already elsewhere.
The attendant inclined his head and led the way. As they ascended, Arthur noted each stair, every landing, the turn of corridors. He measured the positions of guards outside doors, the flicker of torchlight along stone walls. Every servant was cataloged, every door mapped, each shadow a potential ally or threat. Even in chambers meant for rest, his mind worked as if on patrol.
Night fell heavy over the Red Keep, and Arthur's rest was not to be taken lightly. Sliding silently from his window, he dropped to the courtyard below, feet landing with careful precision. The night air was thick with mist and the faint scent of river beyond the walls.
Arthur moved as he had in the Riverlands — silent, precise, a shadow threading between stone and torchlight. His mission was specific: ensure no threat from the Faith's agents lingered in King's Landing.
Ahead, the harsh clang of boots and muffled voices drew his attention. Around a narrow alley near the Flea Market, a pair of Gold Cloaks had cornered a small boy, no older than ten or eleven, and were pressing him with jeers and threats.
"Speak, brat!" one barked, shoving him against the wall. "What are you hiding? Who sent you?"
"I-I don't know anything!" the boy stammered, eyes wide with terror.
Arthur stepped from the shadows, voice low but carrying authority. "Leave him."
The cloaks spun, spears raised. "And who are you, little lord?" one sneered, "Think you can tell us what to do?"
Arthur's hand brushed Reaper at his hip. With a swift, fluid motion, he knocked the first patrolman to the cobblestones, a pressure point at the neck and shoulder rendering him unconscious. The second went down moments later, clutching his head as he collapsed, eyes wide in shock.
The boy stared at Arthur, a flicker of awe passing over his features. "I… I could have handled them, Lord Arthur" he said
Arthur studied him closely, sensing the subtle mark he had taught his agents to carry — a hidden vow etched in movement and posture. Recognition settled. "You're one of mine," he said softly.
"I am," the boy replied. "Mistress told me to wait for you. Come, I'll take you to someone who can tell you what we've learned."
He led Arthur through narrow alleys and over low rooftops, slipping past the oblivious Gold Cloaks, until they reached a discreet door marked with a subtle sigil known to Arthur's network. Inside, the air was thick with candle smoke and murmured voices.
A woman looked up as they entered, eyes sharp and calculating. "Lord Arthur," she said, inclining her head. "The streets have been restless. The Faith's whispers grow louder, and the Citadel watches too closely."
Arthur's gaze swept the room. "tell me everything you have on Ser Halvar. Every movement, every ally, every hidden cell — and where he is now" he said, voice calm but firm,
The woman retrieved a bundle of parchments and laid them out. "Ser Halvar is currently holed in a small cloister beneath the Red Keep, near the old sept passage. He has two sworn blades with him, moving cautiously but certain none will reach him. Other cells report to him there, though they are scattered and poorly disciplined."
Arthur's eyes flicked to the sketches, memorizing Halvar's posture, the angles of attack, and escape routes. "And the assassins you traced before?" he asked, voice low.
"The last cells you destroyed… dead, as you predicted. The Faith discovered the bodies and whispered of betrayal, but none suspects your hand."
A faint smile brushed Arthur's lips. "Good. Ensure it stays that way. The story must reach them exactly as intended — corpses,"
He gathered the parchments and left the place, the shadows already stretching across the streets. Tonight, he would finish the rest.
Arthur moved like a ghost along the rooftops, torchlight flickering far below and Gold Cloaks patrolling unaware. Every step was measured, every shadow a friend, every torch a marker. The alleyways and hidden passages of the Red Keep were as familiar to him as the forests of the Riverlands — mapped in memory, cataloged for danger and escape.
He traced the paths indicated by his network, the route the woman at the brothel had confirmed: Halvar's cloister beneath the Red Keep. Narrow stairwells, hidden doors, and corridors carved into the stone like secret veins — all were cataloged in Arthur's mind as he descended.
Beneath the torchlit archways of the lower passage, he paused, sensing movement ahead. Voices murmured: Halvar and his two knights, whispering fiercely, unaware that every step, every breath, was already known to him.
"The boy dies tomorrow," Halvar spat, the orange glow of a torch casting shadows across his twisted face. "If the king fails us, the Seven will not. Gold buys silence.
The other knight shifted uneasily. "But… if he beats the Lion's son? What then?"
Halvar's face twisted further. "Then the kings Madness will burn brighter. Mark me — no Unholy things leaves King's Landing alive."
Arthur stepped forward from the darkness, voice low and sharp, slicing through the murmur like steel:
"So this is where you were hiding, Sir Halvar."
The knights flinched, hands fumbling at swords. Too slow. Reaper whispered through the air, black and silent, and two of them fell, lifeblood dark across pale flagstones.
Halvar staggered back, pressing against the wall, hand clawing for a dagger. Arthur's blade slid flat across his chest, the cold weight stopping him mid-breath.
"You sent dogs to hunt me," Arthur murmured, voice calm, almost curious. "One lies rotting by the roadside, two bleed at your feet. You believed you carried judgment."
Halvar's lips trembled. "Y-you are no man…"
Arthur's eyes were cold as winter. "No. I am the end of men like you."
The strike was clean, silent. Halvar jerked, then sagged, life spilling as his head lolled sideways.
Arthur crouched, stripping a pouch of gold from Halvar's belt. He pressed it into the dead knight's hand and let coins scatter across the stones, catching the torchlight. To any casual observer, it would appear a quarrel among sellswords, betrayal bought in blood and coin.
The Red Keep itself seemed to hold its breath. By dawn, when Gold Cloaks would find the bodies, they would see only dead men, their honor stained by greed. None would think of the boy from the North who had moved unseen through their city, carrying death with him like a shadow.
Without a sound, Arthur slipped into the darkness, moving with the same silent precision that had guided him through the streets and rooftops. Each step was measured, each shadow a shield, until the Red Keep's corridors, patrols, and torchlit halls fell behind him. By the time the first candle flickered low, he was back in his quarters — surveyed, struck, and cataloged, leaving no trace of his passage, no whisper of his presence.
He sat, blade resting across his lap, listening to the quiet of the Keep and the faint sighs of distant patrols. Every watcher, every loyal servant, every hidden thread of conspiracy was noted. Tomorrow, he would duel Jaime Lannister.
He closed his eyes for a moment, feeling the tension in his muscles, the silent anticipation in the air. Every movement, every breath, every glance of the Red Keep's denizens had been recorded. He was ready.
The duel with the Golden Lion would be more than a test of steel. It would be the first true measure of how far Arthur could bend the political and martial currents of this city without revealing himself.
And he would crush them all.