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A trumpet blast split the courtyard, sharp and ceremonial. A herald in crimson and gold stepped forward, unrolling a parchment with theatrical precision.
"By command of His Grace, King Aerys the Second of House Targaryen," the man's voice rang out, echoing against the stone walls, "this day shall see a contest of arms! Ser Jaime Lannister of the Kingsguard, sworn sword to the Iron Throne, shall face Arthur Snow of the North, seventeen years of age, come to prove his mettle before the court!"
Murmurs rippled through the assembled lords and courtiers. Some leaned forward with eager smiles, others watched in silence, weighing the worth of boy against Kingsguard.
On the dais, Aerys shifted in his seat, lips curling into a grin far too wide. His voice cut the air, manic and eager:
"At last! Let the boy prove his worth — against my Kingsguard!" His gaze snapped to Jaime, fever-bright, demanding. "You will not fail me, will you?"
Jaime bowed his head, voice steady despite the itch in his palms and the coil of unease in his gut.
"I will not, Your Grace."
Blunted blades had been chosen for the contest, their edges dulled but their weight still punishing. Blunted blades had been chosen for the contest, their edges dulled but their weight still punishing. The clatter of steel echoed as squires buckled Jaime into his armor. Piece by piece, the weight settled across his shoulders: gleaming breastplate, polished vambraces, golden lion worked into the enamel of his shield. The gilded plates shone in the sunlight, a lion's armor for a lion's son. One boy adjusted the straps at his elbow, another tightened the buckles at his waist. Jaime stood still, jaw clenched, trying to quiet the thoughts that pressed in with every tug of leather.
Arthur Snow had no such attendants. He was alone.
Before the watching crowd, he had set aside the greatsword he carried , wrapped in black cloth, laid carefully upon the rough bench.
With deliberate calm, he fitted each piece of armor himself: the simple mail shirt pulled over his head, the leather straps buckled tight, the plain steel helm set aside within reach. His shield bore no sigil, only a coat of faded paint chipped with wear. There was no retinue to polish the steel, no guiding hand to steady him. He was his own squire, his own knight. At seventeen, he carried himself with a poise many men twice his age never found.
Jaime, watching, felt an ache of pity twist in his chest. He crossed the courtyard, blunted sword in hand, and spoke low, meant only for Arthur.
"I'll see to it this is quick," Jaime said softly. "I'll be careful. No harm will come to you beyond a bruise or two."
Arthur turned, gray eyes lifting to meet his. His expression was unreadable, but his voice was steady as cold steel.
"Then you've already lost, Ser Jaime Lannister. Come at me as if you mean it — or don't come at all."
The words settled heavier than armor. Jaime drew a breath, but found none of his rehearsed assurances left. For the first time that morning, he wondered if the boy was truly the one at a disadvantage.
Arthur, unseen until now, moved into the courtyard with effortless grace, like smoke seeping through cracks. Jaime watched him catalog the space with eyes sharper than any courtier's, noticing every guard, every torch, every possible angle of attack. There was no hesitation, no distraction. Jaime forced himself to steady his breath. He had trained far longer than this northerner.
The duel began with a shriek of steel, the sound ringing across the courtyard like a trumpet of war. Jaime struck first — fast, confident, the golden lion lunging with the certainty that speed and precision would humble a green boy. His blade cut through the air in gleaming arcs, testing for weakness, for hesitation.
But Arthur did not falter.
The boy moved like water, but struck like stone. Each parry landed with the weight of mountains, each counter measured to the fraction of an inch. Where Jaime pressed forward, Arthur flowed around him, swift and sure, as though the rhythm of the fight had been written for him alone. His feet barely seemed to touch the ground, his body shifting with unnatural ease, as if he carried no weight at all.
Jaime's strikes grew sharper, faster, more desperate — but Arthur absorbed them with terrifying calm, his gray eyes unblinking, his face untouched by strain. There was no sweat on his brow, no break in his breath. He fought as if stamina were endless, as if time itself bent to his pace.
Each clash rattled Jaime's arm, numbing fingers and tightening chest. It was not brute strength alone that overwhelmed him, but a grace so honed it seemed otherworldly. The boy's blade sang, each stroke precise and purposeful, ungodly in its beauty — like a dancer weaving death from steel.
Courtiers gasped, their voices rising in disbelief. Varys's eyes glittered with intrigue, the Hand leaned forward, and even Rhaegar Targaryen's calm mask broke with a flicker of astonishment. The King's laughter cracked the air, manic and shrill, delight tangled with fear.
Arthur Dayne stood apart, arms crossed, the faintest twitch of his eyebrow betraying recognition of something extraordinary. His silence was louder than any cheer, for if the Sword of the Morning acknowledged skill, all others had no choice but to believe it.
Jaime's breath came harder, his shoulders aching, yet Arthur never slowed, never tired. He pressed forward with a sudden burst — a lunge so precise it was as if he had seen the future — and Jaime's blade was torn from his hand. The sword clattered against stone, ringing out like a death knell.
Jaime staggered, eyes wide, chest burning, staring at the boy who stood before him unshaken, sword still poised, expression unchanged.
Arthur Snow's calm, unblinking gaze met his. There was no cruelty there, only the quiet certainty of one who had already mastered the moment. It was a controlled ending, deliberate, merciful — a display of superiority so absolute it left no doubt.
For the first time in his life, Jaime Lannister felt what it was to be utterly outmatched.
Silence fell across the courtyard. Whispers rippled through the nobles and Goldcloaks alike, a tide of disbelief. Jaime swallowed, a mixture of awe and grudging respect burning in his chest. He had been defeated, yes — but he had seen something more. This boy, this Northerner, was no ordinary fighter.
Ser Gerold Hightower, the White Bull, shifted his great frame, his face as unreadable as stone. Yet when he spoke, his voice carried the weight of judgment."Few men have ever disarmed a Kingsguard in fair contest. Fewer still with such… composure."
Oswell Whent gave a low whistle, folding his arms. "By the Seven, I thought the boy would stumble by the third exchange. Instead it's Ser Jaime holding his breath like a squire." His grin was crooked, but there was no mockery in it — only astonishment.
Jonothor Darry frowned, his eyes narrowing as if searching for trickery. "He fights clean. No flourish, no wasted breath. Gods, it's like the blade was part of him."
Even Lewyn Martell, so often quiet at his brothers-in-arms' side, allowed himself a small smile. "Elia will be pleased. Her countrymen speak of water dancers from Braavos. I see now why."
Barristan Selmy had remained silent, his eyes never leaving Arthur Snow throughout the duel. Now, at last, he stepped forward, his white cloak shifting like snow in the breeze. His voice was calm, steady, but carried across the courtyard with authority that could not be ignored."There is no deceit in his blade. No vanity in his stance. Only discipline. He fought not for show, nor for applause, but for the truth of the sword."
The words settled like stone. From Barristan the Bold, such praise was rarer than rubies.
Arthur Dayne's violet eyes lingered on the boy for a long moment. Then, almost imperceptibly, he inclined his head — a nod of acknowledgment. A gesture rarely given, and rarer still to one outside the Kingsguard.
One by one, the white cloaks looked to Arthur Dayne. The Sword of the Morning did not praise easily, and his silence spoke volumes. Yet when he finally said, "The boy has the makings of a knight beyond knights," the words cut deeper than any blade.
All eyes returned to Arthur Snow, who still stood at ease, sword lowered, face untouched by exertion. A boy of seventeen who had silenced a courtyard full of lords, knights, and kings.
And in that silence, Jaime knew the truth none would dare voice aloud: if this was the measure of a bastard from the North, then the Seven Kingdoms had not yet begun to understand what kind of storm had walked into their midst.
Jaime retrieved his sword and bowed slightly, forcing a smile, though his pride ached. He had been tested, and in the heart of King's Landing, the boy from the North had announced his presence without a word. Jaime knew, in that quiet acknowledgment and in the tension that lingered, that this duel was only the beginning of a larger game — one in which skill, wit, and shadows would carry more weight than titles or legacy.
He would have never guessed it then, standing amidst the echoes of clashing steel and awe-struck whispers, that this single moment marked the start of a future far graver, a future in which the world he knew would be reshaped by men who moved like ghosts and struck like the wind.