Starfall training yard.
Darkstar Gerold Dayne's blunted sword flew from his hand.
The shadow of the first Arthur—the Sword of the Morning—had always loomed over him. Now the second Arthur—the Dark Knight—had just beaten him senseless.
Darkstar felt nothing but bitter frustration. Arthur was his natural counter.
He was one step behind from the start and never recovered. There was no time or strength left to lunge for another weapon.
Arthur's heavy blade flashed like lightning, cracking against Gerold's left and right ribs. Darkstar flailed helplessly.
Then Arthur's boot slammed into his chest.
The kick launched Darkstar backward. He crashed to the ground, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth.
Maester Qyburn watched with cold fascination. Arthur's monstrous talent far surpassed even Ser Oswell's. It reminded him of the Dragonknight Aemon.
Dragons and bats both had leathery wings—the bat-winged helm suddenly felt fitting. Add those deep blue-violet eyes, and Qyburn wondered if his wild theory held any truth.
"Arthur!" Allyria cried, her voice bright with excitement. The display had turned the girl into a full-blown admirer.
Though she looked like a younger, livelier version of Ashara, Allyria's personality was warmer and more fiery than her sister's.
"Harrenhal!"
"Harrenhal!" big Rolly roared, blood pumping. This was true knightly power.
The three hedge knights felt a huge weight lift. Now they understood where their young lord's and Ser Lucas's unshakable confidence came from.
Arthur's skill was supreme. He could end fights at will—even against men several years older, just like Maegor and Daemon Blackfyre.
"Dark Knight!"
"Bat Knight!"
Cheers crashed over the yard like a tidal wave. The crowd roared Arthur Whent's name the same way they had once cheered for the previous Arthur, the Sword of the Morning.
Dorne, the North, and the Iron Islands might care less for knightly pageantry, but they worshipped strength all the same.
Robb Stark and Jon Snow had trained from the moment they could walk. The Red Viper was the pinnacle of Dornish warriors.
The spectators cheered the victor. Dorne's finest young swordsman, Darkstar, had been humiliated.
The Dark Knight had not exaggerated. He truly was terrifyingly strong.
"Ser Gerold!"
Darkstar's retainers rushed forward, shocked. They had never seen their lord beaten so badly.
"You did not exaggerate," Ser Samwell told Ser Lucas. "The Dark Knight's talent is monstrous. Darkstar tried to end it quickly with age and strength, only to be toyed with. Arthur Whent seems born for battle."
"He will be a champion on both the tourney field and the battlefield," Ser Lucas agreed.
"Darkstar has only been unhorsed once or twice in his life. He has never been humiliated like this," Lord Alan said quietly.
Arthur possessed the gift of the warrior—an unmatched charisma that came with raw power.
Arthur lowered his blunted sword and walked over to the fallen man.
Darkstar's head was spinning. Arthur reached down and pulled off his dented helm.
Gerold's face was bruised and swollen, blood leaking from his mouth.
"You lost," Arthur said simply.
"Why…?" Darkstar rasped in despair. "I'm older. I have more experience. I trained harder."
"Because I am stronger. You enjoy killing and chaos, don't you?" Arthur's voice carried an almost hypnotic weight.
"You crave chaos too?" Darkstar's eyes widened. Arthur gave no answer.
It was his own deepest secret.
Darkstar suddenly felt crushed on every level—strength, skill, cunning.
He had wanted fame. Instead he had been stepped on.
"What is your sword style?" Darkstar asked.
"Want to learn? I'll teach you. Mine is the tide of the sea," Arthur said, sheathing his blunted blade.
"Again?" Arthur asked softly, ready to loosen the boy's bones a little more.
"I yield," Darkstar forced out, voice hoarse. The defeat had shattered something inside him.
He replayed the fight in his mind. In a real war he would already be dead.
And yet he had lost so naturally. The gap in talent felt like a nightmare.
Age, strength, cunning—Arthur held every advantage. In a few more years the loss would be even worse.
At that moment Lord Alan declared, "The victor—Arthur of House Whent, the Dark Knight!"
"Black Arthur!"
"Dark Knight!"
The roar swelled into a thunderous wave that refused to die. The crowd cheered the new hero the same way they had once cheered the old.
High Hermitage's retainers helped their lord to his feet, murmuring comforts.
"You lost to one of the Seven Kingdoms' brightest rising stars. You should be proud."
"Shut your mouth if you can't speak properly," Darkstar snarled, rage and humiliation burning hotter.
He had wanted to surpass the Sword of the Morning. Now even that dream felt impossible.
The Dark Knight's fame was spreading like wildfire. He was merely the footnote.
"Take Gerold inside and let him rest," Lord Alan ordered. "We will hold the feast in the Hall of the Sword."
The crowd slowly dispersed.
Arthur watched Darkstar being led away. The boy was proud to the bone.
Only a thorough beating could plant fear in his heart and leave a lasting shadow.
Darkstar was also Dorne's hidden blade—lover of Arianne, hungry for fame and power, even war.
Better to turn him into Arthur's double agent than let Varys recruit him.
Arthur and his men needed to change for the feast.
He removed his armor and padded gambeson, then donned formal attire.
The Hall of the Sword glowed with splendor and laughter.
Arthur wore a gold-and-black doublet with nine black bats on a gold field, matching breeches and boots, and a fine new yellow cloak.
Darkstar sat with a bandage around his forehead, eyes dazed.
He had not forgotten the shadow the Dark Knight left behind. When Arthur struck, he struck without mercy.
Arthur sat at the high table beside Allyria in her purple gown. The two young people laughed and talked easily.
"Thank you for this magnificent feast, Lord Alan!"
"Long live Lord Alan!" the guests cheered.
Three groups filled the hall: Starfall's people, High Hermitage's men, and Arthur's retinue.
The feast featured lemon-egg soup, long green peppers stuffed with cheese and onions, lamprey pie, honey-roasted capon, and huge fish fresh from the sea.
The most famous dish was snake soup—seven different serpents simmered slowly with fire peppers, blood oranges, and a touch of venom.
"Spicy," Arthur said after the first sip. The heat was intense.
"Sip slowly," Allyria laughed. "It's strong."
Her hair was black, her eyes violet, skin pale—the classic Dayne beauty.
The Daynes did not all look alike. Lord Alan's heir Edric already had platinum hair.
Arthur nodded and savored the soup.
"You have earned immortal fame," Lord Alan said with a smile. "I am even considering sending Edric to squire for you one day."
"That would be my honor," Arthur laughed.
With that single promise, Starfall was now locked to him.
"Write to me," Allyria whispered. "I'll write back."
"Of course. Come visit the Gods Eye when you can. It's especially beautiful," Arthur replied softly.
"You really must leave?" Ser Samwell asked.
Arthur nodded. "Starfall is wonderful, but I must return to Harrenhal."
The storm was coming. War was about to break.
He had spent this journey recruiting and strengthening his forces precisely so he could give Balon Greyjoy's ironborn a proper welcome.
He had already claimed glory on the tourney field. Now it was time to claim glory on the battlefield.