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Arthur Snow returned to his chambers as the sun crested the Red Keep's towers, his mind still processing the revelations from his duel with Arthur Dayne. The connection between the star-metal shards and his previous life ran deeper than he had imagined, but those mysteries would have to wait. The political web around him was tightening, and it was time to leave King's Landing before it became a noose.
A servant's knock interrupted his thoughts. "My lord, the Hand requests your presence at your earliest convenience."
Arthur found Lord Owen Merryweather pacing nervously in his solar, wringing his hands as he had during every council meeting since the King's mysterious ailment began.
"Lord Snow," Merryweather began without preamble, "I trust you understand that your... situation here has become rather complicated."
"I am aware," Arthur replied mildly.
"Yes, well," the Hand cleared his throat uncomfortably, "I've taken the liberty of arranging passage for you to White Harbor aboard the merchant vessel Sea Rose. The captain, Daveth Blackwater, is reliable and discrete. You'll be in the North within a fortnight."
Arthur studied the nervous man, sensing genuine intent behind the offer. Merryweather truly believed he was providing safe passage—the Hand had no knowledge of what others had planned.
"Your consideration is appreciated, my lord Hand," Arthur said. "When does the ship depart?"
"This evening, with the tide. The captain will expect you at the docks before sunset." Merryweather hesitated, then added, "Lord Snow... whatever power you possess, whatever you truly are—perhaps it's best if such mysteries remain in the North."
After taking his leave from the Hand, Arthur made his way through the Red Keep's corridors, his senses alert to the subtle changes in the castle's atmosphere. Servants whispered more urgently in corners. Guards exchanged meaningful glances. The very air seemed thick with conspiracy.
He paused outside the Queen's solar, where a guard announced his presence. Queen Rhaella received him in a chamber filled with afternoon sunlight, her silver-gold hair catching the light as she dismissed her ladies with a gentle word.
"Arthur Snow," she said softly, her violet eyes studying him with maternal concern. "You've caused quite a stir in our quiet court."
"Your Grace is too kind," Arthur replied, bowing respectfully.
She gestured for him to sit, but remained standing herself, moving to the window that overlooked the harbor. "My husband woke this morning, confused and... diminished. The maesters say his mind suffered some manner of shock, though they cannot explain what caused it."
Arthur said nothing, but the Queen continued.
"You're leaving us today." It wasn't a question. "Perhaps that's wise. Kings have long memories for those who wound their pride, even when they cannot recall how the wound was inflicted." She turned to face him, her expression grave. "Be careful on your journey north, my lord. Not all who smile in the capital wish you well."
"I am grateful for Your Grace's concern," Arthur said, recognizing the warning for what it was.
"Rhaegar speaks of prophecies and destiny," she murmured, almost to herself. "He sees signs in everything now, patterns in chaos. But I am a mother before I am a queen, and mothers learn to recognize danger." Her eyes met his directly. "Whatever you are, Arthur Snow, there are those who would see you dead rather than let you become what you might become."
The conversation ended with courtly pleasantries, but Arthur carried the Queen's warning with him as he prepared for departure. His few possessions fit easily into a single pack—he had learned long ago that a warrior's greatest treasures were his skills and his weapons.
As evening approached, Arthur made his way to the docks, where the Sea Rose waited with sails furled and crew busy with final preparations. Captain Blackwater, a weather-beaten man with honest eyes, greeted him with professional courtesy.
"Lord Snow, welcome aboard. We'll have you to White Harbor in good time, winds permitting."
Arthur nodded his thanks, but his attention was already cataloging the faces around him. His enhanced senses, honed by decades of cultivation and combat, picked up the subtle tells that marked predators among the seemingly ordinary crew.
There—a thin sailor with calloused fingers that spoke of more than rope work. His stance betrayed weapons training, and the small silver seven-pointed star sewn discretely into his collar marked him as one of the Faith's zealots. The man's eyes held the fervor of righteous conviction, and Arthur caught the faint scent of bitter almonds that clung to his clothes. Poison, then. The septons had chosen their tool.
Near the ship's rail, a burly dock worker helped load cargo with movements too practiced, too aware. His eyes swept the surroundings with military precision, and the way he favored his left side suggested a concealed blade. Crown agents, perhaps, though sent by whom remained unclear. Certainly not the Hand, who had arranged this passage in good faith.
And there, speaking quietly with the ship's cook—a man whose olive skin and dark hair marked him as foreign-born. Sorrin of Volantis, if Arthur's intelligence was correct. The red priest's assassin moved with deadly grace, his fingers decorated with rings that gleamed with more than gold. Fire magic and Valyrian steel, a dangerous combination sent by Alanys of the Ember Veil. The priestess in far Volantis clearly viewed Arthur as either a threat to her god's plans or a prize to be claimed.
Three separate factions, each with their own reasons for wanting him dead or captured. Most men would have fled, sought other passage, or called for royal protection. But Arthur Snow was not most men, and the Heavenly Demon had never retreated from a challenge—especially one where his enemies believed they held the advantage.
As the Sea Rose cast off and began its journey toward the Narrow Sea, Arthur stood at the bow, apparently lost in contemplation of the setting sun. Behind him, assassins made their preparations, each believing the others were merely crew members, each convinced that their target remained unaware of the trap closing around him.
The ship cut through the darkening waters, carrying them all toward a confrontation that only Arthur anticipated. Three hunters had boarded this vessel, confident in their skills and their missions.
They would soon learn that the true predator was the one they had mistaken for prey.
The game had begun, and Arthur Snow looked forward to teaching these would-be killers why the Heavenly Demon had been feared across two worlds.
Arthur Snow returned to his chambers as the sun crested the Red Keep's towers, his mind still processing the revelations from his duel with Arthur Dayne. The connection between the star-metal shards and his previous life ran deeper than he had imagined, but those mysteries would have to wait. The political web around him was tightening, and it was time to leave King's Landing before it became a noose.
A servant's knock interrupted his thoughts. "My lord, the Hand requests your presence at your earliest convenience."
Arthur found Lord Owen Merryweather pacing nervously in his solar, wringing his hands as he had during every council meeting since the King's mysterious ailment began.
"Lord Snow," Merryweather began without preamble, "I trust you understand that your... situation here has become rather complicated."
"I am aware," Arthur replied mildly.
"Yes, well," the Hand cleared his throat uncomfortably, "I've taken the liberty of arranging passage for you to White Harbor aboard the merchant vessel Sea Rose. The captain, Daveth Blackwater, is reliable and discrete. You'll be in the North within a fortnight."
Arthur studied the nervous man, sensing genuine intent behind the offer. Merryweather truly believed he was providing safe passage—the Hand had no knowledge of what others had planned.
"Your consideration is appreciated, my lord Hand," Arthur said. "When does the ship depart?"
"This evening, with the tide. The captain will expect you at the docks before sunset." Merryweather hesitated, then added, "Lord Snow... whatever power you possess, whatever you truly are—perhaps it's best if such mysteries remain in the North."
After taking his leave from the Hand, Arthur made his way through the Red Keep's corridors, his senses alert to the subtle changes in the castle's atmosphere. Servants whispered more urgently in corners. Guards exchanged meaningful glances. The very air seemed thick with conspiracy.
He paused outside the Queen's solar, where a guard announced his presence. Queen Rhaella received him in a chamber filled with afternoon sunlight, her silver-gold hair catching the light as she dismissed her ladies with a gentle word.
"Arthur Snow," she said softly, her violet eyes studying him with maternal concern. "You've caused quite a stir in our quiet court."
"Your Grace is too kind," Arthur replied, bowing respectfully.
She gestured for him to sit, but remained standing herself, moving to the window that overlooked the harbor. "My husband woke this morning, confused and... diminished. The maesters say his mind suffered some manner of shock, though they cannot explain what caused it."
Arthur said nothing, but the Queen continued.
"You're leaving us today." It wasn't a question. "Perhaps that's wise. Kings have long memories for those who wound their pride, even when they cannot recall how the wound was inflicted." She turned to face him, her expression grave. "Be careful on your journey north, my lord. Not all who smile in the capital wish you well."
"I am grateful for Your Grace's concern," Arthur said, recognizing the warning for what it was.
"Rhaegar speaks of prophecies and destiny," she murmured, almost to herself. "He sees signs in everything now, patterns in chaos. But I am a mother before I am a queen, and mothers learn to recognize danger." Her eyes met his directly. "Whatever you are, Arthur Snow, there are those who would see you dead rather than let you become what you might become."
The conversation ended with courtly pleasantries, but Arthur carried the Queen's warning with him as he prepared for departure. His few possessions fit easily into a single pack—he had learned long ago that a warrior's greatest treasures were his skills and his weapons.
As evening approached, Arthur made his way to the docks, where the Sea Rose waited with sails furled and crew busy with final preparations. Captain Blackwater, a weather-beaten man with honest eyes, greeted him with professional courtesy.
"Lord Snow, welcome aboard. We'll have you to White Harbor in good time, winds permitting."
Arthur nodded his thanks, but his attention was already cataloging the faces around him. His enhanced senses, honed by decades of cultivation and combat, picked up the subtle tells that marked predators among the seemingly ordinary crew.
There—a thin sailor with calloused fingers that spoke of more than rope work. His stance betrayed weapons training, and the small silver seven-pointed star sewn discretely into his collar marked him as one of the Faith's zealots. The man's eyes held the fervor of righteous conviction, and Arthur caught the faint scent of bitter almonds that clung to his clothes. Poison, then. The septons had chosen their tool.
Near the ship's rail, a burly dock worker helped load cargo with movements too practiced, too aware. His eyes swept the surroundings with military precision, and the way he favored his left side suggested a concealed blade. Crown agents, perhaps, though sent by whom remained unclear. Certainly not the Hand, who had arranged this passage in good faith.
And there, speaking quietly with the ship's cook—a man whose olive skin and dark hair marked him as foreign-born. Sorrin of Volantis, if Arthur's intelligence was correct. The red priest's assassin moved with deadly grace, his fingers decorated with rings that gleamed with more than gold. Fire magic and Valyrian steel, a dangerous combination sent by Alanys of the Ember Veil. The priestess in far Volantis clearly viewed Arthur as either a threat to her god's plans or a prize to be claimed.
Three separate factions, each with their own reasons for wanting him dead or captured. Most men would have fled, sought other passage, or called for royal protection. But Arthur Snow was not most men, and the Heavenly Demon had never retreated from a challenge—especially one where his enemies believed they held the advantage.
As the Sea Rose cast off and began its journey toward the Narrow Sea, Arthur stood at the bow, apparently lost in contemplation of the setting sun. Behind him, assassins made their preparations, each believing the others were merely crew members, each convinced that their target remained unaware of the trap closing around him.
The ship cut through the darkening waters, carrying them all toward a confrontation that only Arthur anticipated. Three hunters had boarded this vessel, confident in their skills and their missions.
They would soon learn that the true predator was the one they had mistaken for prey.
The game had begun, and Arthur Snow looked forward to teaching these would-be killers why the Heavenly Demon had been feared.