King's Landing – Nightfall
The room was too warm and too soft for his taste. Polished Myrish sconces lined the walls, throwing soft golden light across the blue-green silks of the drapes and the carved silverwood furnishings. His cloak, still dusty from travel, hung on a stand near the door, beside his sword belt. He had unbuckled it carefully, and placed it there after having returned from his lord's chambers. One did not live through war by growing careless with steel. Yet, Donnel kept his dagger close by underneath the pillows ready for any threat that may arrive under the cover of the night.
Donnel sat alone at the table beside the window, as sleep eluded him in this foreign land, cradling a goblet of Arbor red that was far too sweet for his taste. Wine like that softened a man's edge. Still, it dulled the ache in his sword arm and made the city's noise seem more distant.
Beyond the high manse walls, King's Landing pulsed and murmured like a hive. Donnel had always hated the place. Too many people, too much heat, and no honest snow to cool a man's temper. He sipped again, slower this time. Across the table lay his gauntlets and a half-peeled apple. The fire crackled low behind him, but his thoughts drifted elsewhere.
The tourney, he thought bitterly. Feasts and frills, pageantry and piss. A game for boys who thought breaking lances made them men. He had seen real battles, where these boys would shit and bleed. Only there they would become a man. Donnel had no interest in this prancing dance. Let the knights of summer chase their glory. His place was at Arthur's side, as his sword and shield.
He rose, stretched the stiffness from his back, and wandered to the window. Cool air brushed his face, carrying with it the distant scent of brine and the sour rot of the city. That was when he heard it—soft and sweet, a string's gentle pluck followed by a voice as smooth as riverstone.
Donnel leaned out, brow furrowed.
In the courtyard below, seated on the edge of the dry marble fountain, was Arthur Manderly. The boy—no, the lord—was cradling his weirwood lute in his arms, fingers coaxing melody from its strings like a songbird of the gods. He wore only a loose tunic of blue-green, the silver embroidery of his house catching the moonlight. His head was tilted as he began to sing.
And gods, he could sing.
Donnel had heard Rhaegar Targaryen once, long ago. He'd been seventeen, a squire to Ser William Manderly, the boy's father, and greener than grass. At Harrenhal, when the prince's voice had floated over the great hall, maidens wept, women teared, even knights who'd killed a dozen men had stopped to listen. Donnel remembered thinking no sound in the world could match it.
He had been wrong.
Arthur's voice was smoother than silk, soft as snowfall. It lilted and turned with perfect ease, that slipped into the night like a prayer. There was no ceremony in it, no arrogance, only music.
[The Day they Hanged Black Robin
The Air was Clear and Still
The Day they Hanged Black Robin
The Autumn ground was Chill]
Donnel thought. 'He sings like he was born to do it, Like the gods carved his voice to remind us they still watch.'
A pang stirred in his chest. Pride, yes. And sorrow too. He thought of Ser William, of Lady Helena. They should have seen this. Should have heard it. The child they'd left behind had become a man worthy of their names.
He turned from the window at last and lay back on his bed, still in his shirt, boots off but breeches on. The tune floated up through the stones and rafters like the soft whispers of northern winds.
Donnel had not slept easy in many years. Dreams came haunting him, and memories haunted more. Tonight, with Arthur's song cradling his mind, the darkness came soft. For the first time in months, sleep found him before regret did.
Dawn came with the cry of gulls and the gold light of sun slipping over the red-tiled roofs of the city. Donnel had woken early, as always. Years of service had set the rhythm in his bones. He was up and armed before the servants stirred.
He strapped on his sword belt, tied his surcoat tight, and fastened the polished breastplate marked with the Bronze crossed keys House Locke. His cloak was plain compared to Arthur's, a dusky grey wool clasped at the shoulder. Proper northern garb for a proper northern man.
The manse had already started humming when he stepped into the courtyard. Gardeners clipped rosebushes and footmen swept the stones. Donnel made for the small guard station at the side gate, where his men lodged.
Sergeant Harlon met him with a bow of the head, gruff and prompt. "No disturbances, Ser. One drunk tried climbing the outer wall last night, thinking it was the brothel on the Street of Silk. Tossed him back where he came from."
Donnel gave a dry grunt. "See that the men get a hot meal. Keep two by the back wall, and rotate the roof watch every three hours. I want the main gates fully manned at all times, crowds of the tourney would start rushing in soon enough."
"Aye, Ser." Sergeant Harlon replied with a salute. Satisfied, Donnel turned toward the central stair. It was time to see to the boy.
Arthur's chambers were on the second floor, overlooking the garden where he'd sung the night before. The door stood slightly ajar. That was wrong. Donnel's steps quickened.
He pushed in fast, hand on hilt. "Arthur—"
A blur of motion, quick and silent. A glimmer of gold—long hair or the trick of sunlight? Then nothing.
"Seven hells," he muttered.
A moment later, Arthur Manderly emerged from behind a carved Myrish screen, naked save for a towel slung low on his hips and steam rising from his hair. He had that infuriating smile on his face, all charm and confidence.
"Donnel! If you missed me that badly, you could've waited till I dried off."
Donnel flushed. "The door was open."
"I sent the footman down to the kitchen. Told him I wanted a trout pie and those almond pastries for breakfast." Arthur ran fingers through his wet hair. "Door must've swung wider."
As if summoned, the footman appeared behind Donnel, cheeks red, breathless. Donnel turned and glared.
"You left the lord's chamber unguarded, fool. Open door in this city is an invitation to knives."
"M-my apologies, ser. Lord Arthur said—"
"Ser Donnel, don't start scaring the poor lad," Arthur said lightly. "He's not in fault, that rests with me, and no assassin was slipping past you anyway." He laughed and waved the footman inside. "Go on, set the tray. I'll dress before I frighten my sworn shield into a heart attack."
Grumbling, Donnel stepped aside and folded his arms while Arthur vanished behind the screen again. He didn't like this city. He didn't like how easily doors stayed open in this place.
By the time they sat at the small breakfast table in Arthur's solar, the scent of lemon cakes and fish pie had filled the room. Donnel accepted a mug of black tea but waved off the pastries.
Arthur, dressed now in rich robes of seafoam blue and white-silver trim, looked every inch the lord. A silver chain bearing a small trident sat loose around his neck, his rings polished, hair combed back still damp.
"The tourney starts after midday," Arthur said between bites. "They've added my name to the lists already."
"You'll draw all the eyes, because of your name and your blade," Donnel said with evident pride, "Make sure you knock those prancing arrogant southern nobles on their arses."
Arthur grinned. "I'll be gentle. Mostly."
Just then, the steward Halder entered—a short, diligent, soft-spoken man, with ink-stained fingers. He had a habit of blinking too much, in Donnel's opinion.
"My lord," Halder said, "A raven arrived from the Red Keep. His Grace, King Robert, Lord of The Seven Kingdoms, requests your presence at his table tonight for the feast following the tourney."
Arthur set down his cup. "Of course. Send word back, and prepare something for the evening. My black doublet with the white merman and silver embroidery."
Halder bowed. "Shall I have the gifts brought out as well?"
"Yes," Arthur said. "Deliver them to the Red Keep with my compliments. The King, Queen Cersei, the princes, Lord Jon Arryn and his lady wife, the royal brothers… and Lord Tywin Lannister as well."
"What about Ser Jaime?" Donnel asked, raising a brow. Arthur smiled thinly. "Yes, for him as well. I hear he plans to win the tourney. I'll give him something shiny to soften the sting."
"And Lord Tyrion?" Halder enquired.
"For Lord Tyrion… a book. An illustrated copy of The Saga of Beowulf, by our beloved Caedmon. He'll appreciate that more than a sword or cloak."
Donnel gave a short nod. Lavish, but wise. Arthur knew the value of a good impression. And the cost of a poor one. When Halder bowed and departed, Arthur turned back to Donnel, eyes gleaming. "Ready for the games, Ser?"
"I still won't be taking part in the tourney, Arthur," Donnel muttered. "But I'll be watching. I trust you'll try not to kill anyone important."
"No promises," Arthur said, and laughed.
King's Landing – The Tourney Grounds
The grounds outside the Dragon Gate buzzed with the sounds of hammer and horn, hoofbeats, and highborn laughter. Bright tents snapped in the wind—Yellow and Black for the Baratheon royal stags, green and gold for the Tyrell roses, red and gold for the Lannister lions, sky blue and white for the Arryn falcons. A sea of silk, steel and pride. In the midst of it all their own tent, The Manderly tent was lavish and luxurious. Arthur spared no expenses, many of his retainer knights are also taking part in the tourney. Some like Donnel are mostly interested in their duties.
Donnel entered the tent after finishing up his inspections and saw Arthur Manderly standing still as a statue, arms slightly lifted while two squires worked the clasps on his silver vambraces. He wore a surcoat of shimmering sea-green silk, chased with the white merman and trident edged in threads of silver that caught the sun like starlight. His breastplate was a masterpiece of Manderly steelcraft, polished bright with the crest of his house engraved upon it.
Donnel looked at the boy's sword nearby, at the table. Not just any ordinary sword. Nightfall.
Even sheathed, the weapon had a presence. The grip was wrapped in sea-blue leather, the crossguard silver coated steel. The pommel bore a trident worked in ivory. The scabbard was black, chased with old runes etched in bronze.
Only a handful of Valyrian blades still remained in Westeros, and fewer still found new masters. But this one—this one had come to Arthur in blood.
Donnel remembered the moment clearly, though it had been eight years ago. The Greyjoy Rebellion had drawn them both south to the Iron Islands. Arthur was a mere boy of six, stubborn and fierce-eyed, already tall for his age, already talking of glory and duty in a way that made old men chuckle and shake their heads.
He had been a ward of Lord Eddard Stark back then and accompanied him to war. Even though Lord Stark was reluctant to take him along. The boy's persistent requests won in the end. King Robert had learned the boy was with Lord Stark; he summoned the boy to his Royal tent after the siege of Pyke and the surrender of Balon Greyjoy.
During the surrender the Harlaws sent a young boy of twelve or thirteen to kill King Robert in his tent, most of the Kingsguards guards were down as the enemy was defeated and no one had predicted a boy assassin. But Arthur had been vigilant. He slit the boy assassin's throat with his dagger and saved the King's life. The King was furious and wanted to kill all the ironborn there.
The Harlaws began pleading that they didn't send any assassins; they didn't even know the boy who tried to attack. Lord Tywin ordered the arrest of all Harlaws and advised the king to execute them. Lord Stark immediately opposed the old lion. The Harlaws continued to plead stating they didn't do anything and begged for mercy. Lord Harlaw in the end pleaded to take his life but spare his son's.
Lord Eddard intervened and advised the king to offer the wall. Then Arthur spoke up and asked the king if he would be allowed to ask for a reward. The King, ever grateful and generous, granted any boon to the boy. The boy Arthur then asked for pardon to the Harlaws stating this might have been an act of the young boy alone.
Lord Eddard was pleased while Lord Tywin was angry. But Arthur wasn't finished, he then added the pardon be granted provided they give up their Valyrian steel sword to him.
King Robert immediately liked the idea calling it a prize of war for the boy and the Harlaws reluctantly agreed as it was this or extinction.
This caused an outcry. Tywin Lannister had sniffed at the idea, wanting a Valyrian blade for one of his own. Barristan Selmy had called it unseemly. Lord Stark stated it was dishonorable claiming a family's ancestral sword.
But Robert Baratheon had clapped Arthur on the back and declared, "He won it by battle. Just as many of the others did before him and many might do after. Let the boy have his sword!"
So he did.
Now that same boy stood before a sea of banners, radiating the kind of presence only the truly rare possess. "You ready?" Donnel asked, handing the sword to the boy.
Arthur smiled. "Am I ever not?" He took Nightfall reverently, the weight familiar in his hands. The squires stepped back as Arthur fastened the weapon to his hip. He turned slightly, testing the way the armor shifted, "Perfect."
The crowd began to stir as heralds called for the next champions to approach the lists. Trumpets blared, and banners dipped.
Donnel mounted his own horse, staying close behind Arthur as they rode forward through the swarming nobles, past smallfolk shouting names of noble knights and waving painted cloth.
"Ser Loras Tyrell! Loras! Renly Baratheon! Renly!" They cried. Some of them cheered for Arthur too, famed for his charity and his name.
He bore it all with the ease of one born to it, but Donnel could see the flicker of humor at the edge of his mouth.
"Careful," Donnel said as they neared the list. "If your smile gets any wider, you'll start looking like Lord Baelish."
Arthur laughed. "Gods forbid! Anything but the Mockingbird."
As they approached the tilt, a dozen highborn eyes fell upon them—lords and ladies, knights and squires. Donnel scanned the faces, noting the old lion Lord Tywin Lannister sitting near the Royal family with his son Tyrion, watching Ser Jaime. Ser Jaime armored in his gold and splendor riding a white mare, prepared for the melee. Donnel saw the Lord Hand Jon Arryn and his wife Lady Lysa and their child Robert Arryn, Lord Stannis in his rigid discipline, and King Robert, red-faced and roaring with mirth beside Queen Cersei's unmoved stare. Their children the crown prince Joffrey, princess Myrcella and little prince Tommen all in tow at the Royal booth cheering for their uncle Jaime.
Donnel reigned beside the fighters pavilion, dismounting to take his place at the side. He oversaw the servants and the squires who'd attend to Arthur during the tourney. He whispered a silent prayer to the old gods and the new. Asking them to keep the boy safe. Donnel knew the boy was skilled, but skills cannot defeat fate.
The sun sat high above the Dragonpit's shadow, bleeding gold through the morning haze as trumpets screamed as the melee began. A hundred men stood within the sprawling field ringed by a thousand noble eyes, each man armored and hungry for glory. Shields bore lions, moons, flowers, and birds. Some bore nothing at all—sellswords from across the Narrow Sea, with murder in their eyes and coin in their hearts.
Donnel stood outside the ropes, arms folded over his chest, helm tucked beneath one arm as he watched the squires unfasten the last strap of Arthur's cloak. Beneath it, his young lord looked every inch the hero the bards would one day lie about. His plate gleamed silver-blue, chased with threads of white along the joints, the sigil of the Manderly stamped across his breastplate. A sea-green plume flowed like riverweed from his helm.
"He's too young," muttered a nearby knight, judging by his accent, he was from Maidenpool. "Four-and-ten, they said."
"He's the son of Ser William Manderly," muttered another man with an accent of Gulltown, "That must count for something."
Donnel ignored their chattering and focused on the melee. The participants were all waiting.
A horn sounded and the chaos began.
The melee exploded into violence, swords clanging, shields cracking, men shouting as the field became a storm of steel. Donnel's eyes never left Arthur, riding his horse Midnight, he moved through the battle like a wraith. Nightfall danced in his hands, black and deadly, flowing from cut to parry to riposte with liquid ease.
The first man Arthur dropped was Ser Mors Brune, knocked senseless by a crushing blow to the helm. Then came a pair of Myrish sellswords who thought to overwhelm him with speed. They found only pain. One went down with his arm shattered. The other lost a knee.
When Thoros of Myr came bellowing through the melee, his sword of fire swirling and his bald head already gleaming with sweat, the crowd roared in delight. He brought fire and fury, a man who'd survived Blackhaven and Pyke. Arthur's blade caught his mid-swing, sending it wide—and the pommel of the sword cracked against Thoros's jaw as the red priest crumpled.
Donnel nodded happily as Arthur defeated a major foe of the melee. And the crowd cheered for the boy.
Next came Lord Yohn Royce, all bronze and thunder. Arthur met him blow for blow, metal against metal, the two dancing in the dust for what seemed an age. Even at his age Lord Royce was ferocious. Donnel saw Arthur's arm buckle once—but only once. He turned Royce's strength against him, letting the larger man overreach, then stepping in to strike low. Lord Royce hit the ground with a grunt of surpris. When Arthur got down wnd offered his hand, the lord took it with a booming laugh. Donnel breathed a sigh of relief.
And then came him. The golden lion. Ser Jaime Lannister.
The Kingslayer moved like a lion, sword in hand and smile on his lips. Most called him the greatest sword of the realm and Donnel could see why. The crowd fell quiet as they clashed, steel ringing with deadly music. The knight and the boy circled and struck, feinted and spun. Arthur's blue-green armor flashed beside Jaime's gold-and-white, like waves striking rock.
For a moment, it seemed the younger man would finally fall. Jaime pressed him hard, blow after blow, relentless like the waves of the ocean.
Then Arthur shifted his stance.
It was subtle. Donnel barely saw it. His sword twisted in a narrow arc, catching Jaime's blade midair, turning the force aside, using the stronger man strength against him Arthur surged in close. His plated elbow slammed into Jaime's ribs, and immediately he kicked Ser Jaime's knees. The knight lost his footing and fell from his mount. Arthur jumped down from Midnight's back knocked the sword from the lion's hand. Donnel saw Nightfall pointed at Ser Jaime's neck.
The crowd was stunned. Jaime Lannister was laying on the ground blinking up at the sword and at the boy holding it. Both of them were covered in bruises and dirt. Ser Jaime opened his helm and let out a breathless laugh then he said loud enough for the crowd to hear, "Well, I'm glad to see that your father's blood runs true."
Arthur opened his helm and replied. "I'm honoured, Ser Jaime, Now do you yield.."
"You have the day, my lord." Jaime said, smirking.
The horn blew again, thrice now. The melee was over. Arthur held out his hand and helped Jaime Lannister stand up. The knight stood up and held up Arthur's hands and Arthur held up his helm.
Victorious!
The crowd erupted in cheers. Arthur's name along with Ser William's echoed around the grounds.
Ser Jaime left the field gracious in defeat. However the queen Cersei and lord Tywin seemed less pleased. King Robert seemed to shout the loudest happy at Arthur's win but more happy at the Kingslayers defeat, Donnel mused. There between all of that chaos, Arthur Manderly, stood alone, covered in glory, like he was born for it.
Donnel exhaled slowly. His mouth was dry, and his heart thundered in his chest not only from fear—but also awe.
Amazed at the boy, No. Not a boy. Not anymore. A man. A warrior. A lord of the North. Facing killers, lords and legends and emerging victorious. Donnel could not have been prouder of his lord.