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Master of Faith Envoy POV
The courtyard still smoked faintly where the duel had ended. Dust hung in the sunlight like suspended judgment. The envoy's eyes lingered on the young northerner—Arthur Snow—who sheathed his blade with a calm precision that drew a shiver down her spine. Every movement was deliberate, measured, almost ritualistic.
Could such a man exist without dark intent? she wondered. The rumors… the pilgrim disappearances, the silent deaths of men who dared oppose hidden forces in the North—could they truly be his doing?
Whispers in the Faith had always hinted at a specter in the North. And now, in the light of this display, she realized the truth she had not wanted to admit: the rumors could not have been exaggerated. Arthur Snow's skill was not mere luck or training; it was uncanny, surgical.
A mix of awe and fear surged in her chest. If the North has birthed such a force… what does that mean for the Faith? And what if he ever turned those blades beyond the training yard? She swallowed hard, forcing her thoughts away from the dark possibilities, but they clawed at her anyway. Do we even know how to contain something like this?
Varys POV
From the shadows near the battlements, Varys allowed himself a small, almost imperceptible smile. He had placed a subtle wager on this boy—nudged him quietly, ensured the right observers would notice. And now, the gamble bore fruit.
Monsters, indeed… but useful ones. He leaned slightly against the stone, letting his mind trace the threads of the boy's potential influence. Unchecked, yes, he could terrify men. But guided… carefully… he could reshape them.
He had heard whispers of Arthur Snow's exploits before: uncatchable, precise, and terrifyingly effective. Watching him now, Varys felt satisfaction curl like smoke in his chest. "A monster," he murmured to himself, but the word carried neither horror nor pity. It was respect, grudging admiration, recognition of mastery.
Power always takes the form of the unexpected. He thought of future leverage, of alliances forged silently, of moves that would not yet be seen. The boy's rise will be subtle, inexorable. And yet, it must be guided. One misstep… and the whole kingdom could burn.
Citadel Envoy POV
Silence and measured steps. That was the hallmark of their training, yet what they had just witnessed eclipsed even the most meticulous Northern techniques cataloged in the archives. Arthur Snow moved like a storm captured in stillness—fierce, precise, and terrifying in its control.
If one man has reached this level… what does it mean for the armies, for our knowledge, for strategy? The envoy's mind raced with possibilities. Every block, every feint, every subtle shift of weight was a secret, a jewel to be extracted and studied.
Curiosity flared, sharp and bright, mingled with the thrill of intellectual discovery. Could this be the beginning of a new era of martial understanding? They imagined the manuscripts, diagrams, and treatises that could codify this skill. The North may have hidden treasures beyond our reckoning, and this boy is the key.
Arthur Dayne POV
Arthur Dayne's hand rested lightly on the hilt of Dawn, though the sword remained at his side. His eyes never left the boy. Every strike, every pivot, every breath taken seemed imbued with a quiet, almost unnatural purpose.
Precision beyond reckoning… calm beyond training… Dayne thought. Who trains a child like this? Who could shape such a force?
And then it happened. Their eyes met. Just for an instant—but enough. Dawn hummed faintly, a resonance the likes of which Dayne had never felt before, and perhaps never would again. He blinked and looked away, trying to dismiss the sensation as coincidence, as imagination.
No… there is more here. Something beyond skill… something beyond fate as we have known it. A seed of unease took root. This boy carries a spark, a shadow, perhaps even destiny itself.
Rhaegar Targaryen POV
From the dais, Rhaegar's gaze followed every move, every measured strike. The duel was meant to be a distraction, a show of honor for the court, yet his mind churned with prophecy and possibility. Aegon was meant to be the Prince That Was Promised, yet here, in this northern boy, something shifted.
Fire and ice… The thought came unbidden, unwelcome, but insistent. The boy was ice—the North itself given form, a warrior tempered in frost and steel. Could he be the ice meant to meet fire? His own blood? His children?
A vision flickered before his mind's eye: the "child of ice and fire," a union of strength and destiny he had not foreseen. If only I had read the signs sooner…
He considered the King's likely reaction. Father would surely offer the boy a place in the Kingsguard. And the boy would accept—drawn by honor, reputation, the very forces of fate stirring. And when that happens, the game begins in earnest.
Rhaegar leaned slightly forward, fingers drumming on the marble railing. Perhaps destiny is not a straight line, but a weaving of choices, skill, and blood. And this boy… he may be the needle that threads it all together.
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In the courtyard, beneath the fading sunlight, the air was thick with tension. Awe, suspicion, prophecy, and political calculation coiled together like serpents. Arthur Snow sheathed his blade, unaware of the weight of eyes and thoughts following him.
The duel had done more than display skill—it had set in motion a series of silent reckonings. The boy would not remain unknown for long. Each observer, each player in this shadowed game, had glimpsed a spark of something monumental, something that could shape the kingdoms for years to come.
And in that convergence, the first threads of destiny were being woven.