Ser Haras Harlaw crumpled to the ground, unwilling to accept defeat. Blood sprayed across Arthur, staining his yellow cloak crimson.
Arthur's cloak already carried the blood of ironborn reavers—the little kraken's and now Haras's. The same blood soaked Haras's scythe-emblazoned cloak, turning it into a dark, spreading pool.
Haras had followed his friend Rodrik into the dark.
Rolly swung down from his horse and finished the job with one clean stroke. Haras's head joined Rodrik's on the bloody ground.
"My lord—his head," Rolly said.
"Nightfall is mine now. Rest easy, Haras. I swear this blade will earn more glory than it ever did in your hands." Arthur stared down at the severed head.
This knight had been Harlaw's finest blade, the pride of the young ironborn generation. Yet he'd run straight into something far deadlier.
The battlefield always cuts deeper than the tourney lists. It doesn't just crown winners—it buries losers.
The Seven Kingdoms are full of talented swordsmen. Only the ones who carve their way through blood earn the name true genius.
"Balon's a generous man," Arthur said, gripping Nightfall. He'd have to thank the self-proclaimed King of the Iron Islands properly someday. Heads and a Valyrian steel blade—Balon really knew how to give gifts.
Nightfall was the youngest Valyrian steel sword in the Seven Kingdoms, but that didn't make it any less priceless.
During the Dance of the Dragons, most houses lost their ancestral blades. Only Dalton Greyjoy—the Red Kraken—had the luck to steal one from eastern pirates a few years earlier.
After Dalton's death the Iron Islands descended into chaos. The powerful Lord of Harlaw quietly claimed Nightfall for himself. The Lannisters, who'd gone half-mad hunting Valyrian steel back then, never learned its hiding place. If they had, Harlaw Island would have burned.
The sword looked like an oversized iron cross. Its entire length was Valyrian steel, balanced by a moonstone pommel. Only the crossguard was slightly longer, chased with gilded, writhing kraken tentacles—flashy and ugly.
Once in his hand, Arthur felt how light it truly was. Thin. Light. Hard. The three hallmarks of Valyrian steel. Those smoky black ripples were the marks of a thousand hammer blows.
"Got it?" Ser Lucas asked.
Arthur nodded, smiling. "Yes."
"You'll need a good blacksmith to swap out that hideous kraken head."
"I already have the man in mind," Arthur replied. "There's a smith in King's Landing who can do the work. No need to sail all the way to Qohor."
He planned to melt away the ugly kraken tentacles and replace them with the bat sigil of House Whent. Once the crossguard changed, the name would change too.
The Targaryens had Dark Sister. House Whent could proudly wield Dark Messenger.
On the far side of the field, Balon's second son Maron Greyjoy didn't last much longer either.
Maron grew frantic as the fight turned against him. Lord Jason's decades of hard-won experience made up for every year of age.
"Seagard is your grave, kraken!" Jason said coldly. His sword work stayed crisp, economical, lethal.
He was a patient fighter, and with the battle already won he fought at full strength—calm, precise, merciless.
"The Drowned God will give me strength!" Maron spat, face drained of color.
But Maron had seen both his brother and Ser Haras fall. Terror hollowed him out. The moment his guard dropped, Jason's blade punched through him.
All three ironborn commanders who had led the raid on Seagard were now dead.
The war ended the way it had begun—in ironborn blood.
"Clear the field," Jason ordered. "Finish the badly wounded. Put the captains in the water cells and the rest in crow cages."
He glanced at Arthur with open envy. The young lord had claimed the greater prize.
Arthur rode over, bat-wing helm tucked under one arm, Nightfall at his hip. "Congratulations on the victory, Lord Jason."
"The victory belongs to you as much as to Seagard," Jason answered, removing his eagle-wing helm. Both men smiled—the easy smile of warriors who had just shared a perfect kill.
They traded the usual compliments. Even without much loot, the heads of Maron and the ironborn captains would bring honor—and royal rewards.
"You look like a bloodthirsty bat," Jason said, no longer speaking down to him. There was only respect in his voice now.
"Plenty of blood," Arthur agreed. "None of it mine."
Jason spurred his horse across the muddy, corpse-strewn field and raised his sword high. "Soldiers! Who is the hero of this day?"
Mud splattered his purple cloak. He didn't care. He had never fought a battle this one-sided, this clean. Not against Hoster Tully at Stone Mill—where the old trout had nearly died to the Griffin.
Today Arthur and his black-armored riders had turned the ironborn into meat.
"Arthur Whent!" the knights roared.
"Arthur Whent!" the cry echoed from the battlements. "Long live Harrenhal!"
"Victory belongs to every man who fought," Arthur called back, smiling as the cheers grew louder.
Sea wind tugged at his black hair. Those deep blue-violet eyes and the handsome, blood-spattered face only made him look more like something out of legend.
Ser Patrick watched from the edge of the field, stunned. Sunlight seemed to halo the young lord. Now he understood why his father had placed such faith in Arthur. The boy carried the Warrior's own blessing.
"Arthur Whent—First Knight of the Trident!"
The chant rose, wild and spontaneous. Someone had coined the title on the spot, and the whole army seized it.
"First Knight of the Trident!"
"First Knight of the Trident!"
To claim the title for all Seven Kingdoms would have been arrogant. But in the Trident? After a hundred years of mediocrity on both tourney field and battlefield, Arthur truly stood alone. Jason and the Blackfish were the only other names worth mentioning. The rest—Coldhands, Bloodraven—were dragonblood outsiders who had spent most of their lives in King's Landing.
"Long live Seagard! Long live Harrenhal!"
"Dark Knight! Dark Knight!"
Together Arthur and Jason rode into the castle, their banners high. Lances bore the heads of two Greyjoy heirs, Ser Haras, and half a dozen ironborn captains. Townsfolk lined the streets, cheering, pretty girls clapping as they passed.
"I'll send word to Riverrun and King's Landing at once," Jason said.
"Of course," Arthur answered. The story needed telling—by both commanders.
"Balon is finished," Jason declared. "He won his surprise victory, but he lost two sons and half his strength here. Once the royal fleet sails, the ironborn will be swept from the sea."
Arthur touched Nightfall's hilt and smiled.
The storm had only begun.