A Thousand Year Voyage- Chapter 35

It took quite some time—far too much of it, too be specific—for the overbearing prince to finally relent in his verbal onslaught, one likely unintentional yet somehow more exhausting to endure than anything since his arrival in Westeros.

Not, of course, that Rhaegar ceased speaking of his own volition. The Elden Lord was rather convinced that, if left unchecked, the drakeling would have continued the conversation until the end of his world. To give credit where it was due, the boy’s fervor was truly impressive in its own way, burning with a zeal almost as inextinguishable as the Giant’s Flame itself.

No, Salvation came in the form of Steffon—Hadwyn’s new favorite person in Westeros. The Stormlord chose a momentary lull in Rhaegar’s assault to interject, taking the prince away to discuss some important matters. Whether those matters truly existed, or whether Steffon merely recognized Hadwyn’s thinning patience and wished to spare his prince the sight of its ending, was anyone’s guess.

Whatever the truth was, Hadwyn was thankful.

Rhaegar, for his part, accepted the separation with dignity, allowing himself to be led aside without complaint. He and Steffon soon began to converse a short distance away, their words indistinct. The topic seemed of little consequence to Hadwyn, so he didn’t even bother trying to listen. Still, even turned away, he could feel the prince’s eyes upon him—a weight that lingered longer than was welcome.

Hadwyn sighed. This entire detour was shaping up to be an extraordinary waste of time. He made a mental note that Ranni—his dear wife—would owe him considerably for this particular trial of endurance.

Naturally, the witch herself had vanished the moment her supposed task was over, using the fact Rhaegar’s attention was fixed on Hadwyn to slip away unnoticed. Undoubtedly, she had returned to their carriage, leaving him to suffer alone.

Well, she had promised him a voyage through fear, doubt, and loneliness. Hadwyn supposed she was simply keeping her word…

Left to his own devices, Hadwyn’s gaze wandered across the ruin in idle search of distraction. It was, unfortunately, one of those places that looked more promising from a distance. The supposed “drake ruins” boasted neither drakes nor anything else of interest—just empty rooms, weathered stone, and the faint scent of drakes long gone.

Then, as his eyes traced the ruined archway, a figure caught his attention—Rhaegar’s knight standing in vigilance near the entrance to the main building, one who had stood there since he led Hadwyn to the prince, watching their interactions in silence. The knight was young—late teens, perhaps—but his face bore the kind of seriousness that came mostly naturally, with only a hint of conscious effort.

He was clad from head to heel in white—enameled scale armor of white trimmed with silver, with a long cloak of matching hue flowing from his shoulders, his attire in stark contrast to the blackened ruins. His behavior was rather commendable as well— His stance proper, alert yet without unnecessary tension, the man not expecting battle yet ready to reach for his blade in the heartbeat it began.

And though the knight himself was not necessarily that interesting, Hadwyn having met countless comparable ones in his long life, it was the sword at his hip that caught his attention, its nature pleasantly familiar.

Though hidden within its sheath, the blade drew Hadwyn’s notice immediately, tugging faintly at his honed senses. Most would have passed it by without a second thought, but Hadwyn was able to feel a faintest pull, one almost unnoticeable yet obvious to him due to the long familiarity.

Meteoric ore.

Rhaegar’s knight, as the man himself admitted, bore a weapon forged from a fallen star. The shape differed from the blade Hadwyn once favored—straighter and broader, closer to a greatsword than katana—but the essence was the same. Amusingly, it was also perhaps the first true magical weapon he had seen since arriving in Westeros.

He studied it for a moment longer, then straightened.

‘Eh. Good enough.’ He thought, shrugging his shoulders. Finding a potential outlet for his boredom, Hadwyn began walking towards the knight.

The man noticed immediately. His stance shifted by barely a breath, but the movement was there—a minute adjustment, his right hand falling a hair closer to his sword’s hilt. His nerves were probably already strung tight, forced to stand watch while a foreign warrior, one his king had just to come to King’ Landing, freely conversed with his royal charge far away from his supposed destination.

Hadwyn offered him a disarming grin as he approached.

“Arthur… Dayne,” Hadwyn began conversationally, his tone casual. He thought he remembered the name correctly, but he wasn’t entirely sure.

The knight inclined his head slightly—a courteous gesture, though his eyes remained sharp.

“…Lord Caria,” Arthur replied, his tone measured and even. “How may I be of service?”

Hadwyn scratched at the stubble along his jaw, smiling faintly.

“I think,” he said simply, his tone light. “I want to see your blade in action.”

For a heartbeat, silence hung between them. Then, subtly, Arthur’s fingers drifted toward his hilt, his stance tensing. His weight shifted ever so slightly to his back foot, swordsman’s instinct drawing him taut. The air between them grew sharper.

“…Could you please elaborate, Lord Caria?” Arthur asked after a pause, voice still level but now carrying a clear hardness. He did not raise his weapon, but his body betrayed he was preparing for a fight to break out.

For a moment, Hadwyn merely blinked at him, then laughed softly, realizing his phrasing might have been somewhat lacking in context.

“Ah. Don’t worry,” Hadwyn said, waving one hand lazily. “I’m not planning to attack you. Not unless you specifically ask for that and prove yourself interesting, anyway.”

That, somehow, did not seem to help, as Arthur’s eyes narrowed just slightly.

“I’ve been sitting in this rubble for quite some time, entertaining your prince, so I feel like a little exercise might do me some good.” Hadwyn said at last, his voice light but edged with weariness. “I used to favor a blade similar to the one you carry, so I thought it might be nice to compare them.”

The words seemed to ease some of the tension wound tight in Arthur’s frame, if only slightly. His shoulders loosened a fraction, the gleam of wariness in his eyes replaced by measured consideration.

“…I am afraid I cannot accept your challenge, Lord Caria,” Arthur said evenly after a pause. His tone was courteous, his diction careful, but Hadwyn caught the faintest ripple of regret beneath the restraint. The young knight was not entirely unwilling—merely bound. “My duty is to safeguard the prince. To cross blades with you would mean neglecting that duty.”

“Look.” Hadwyn said, faintly exasperated. “If something were to happen to your prince while we’re all here, I’m fairly sure you wouldn’t be able to stop it anyway. So you really don’t have to worry about it.”

Arthur blinked once, then scowled slightly—clearly not finding that reassuring in the least.

Hadwyn sighed.

“Okay, let’s go in another direction.” Hadwyn said, looking the knight in the eye. “Tell me, honestly. Duty or not…you really think your prince would not allow it, if you asked?”

That earned him a flicker of expression from Arthur—something close to uncertainty. The knight’s gaze drifted, just for a moment, toward his prince, who stood not far off, still engaged in a conversation with Steffon (though Hadwyn could still feel the burn of his gaze on his back). Arthur’s eyes softened faintly upon looking at him—a strange hint of fondness in his eyes.

Then he sighed.

“…I will broach the subject with the prince, to see if he agrees,” Arthur said finally, his tone carefully measured.

Unsurprisingly, Rhaegar agreed.

***

The courtyard before Summerhall’s ruined keep had been chosen for the spar—a desolate square of cracked stone and creeping grass. It was hardly a proper training ground, but the foreign lord had insisted it would do, considering the casual nature of the affair.

As Arthur Dayne stepped into the courtyard, he could not shake the feeling that something about the entire situation was profoundly wrong.

He was no stranger to duels. In truth, he thrived in them. His natural talent, tempered by endless hours of disciplined training, had allowed him to distinguish himself at the King’s tourney, earning the amazing honor of joining the Kingsguard despite his young age. His instant placement as Prince Rhaegar’s guardian perhaps suggested their relative age might have been a boon instead, yet he did not consider himself being chosen wrongly. Even after donning the white cloak, he had continued testing himself against his sworn brothers, sharpening both edge and instinct, duels still a regular part of his life.

And yet, for all his love of the duel, he was fairly certain he was not meant to duel kings. His vows, after all, were most definitely to protect them.

Yet here he stood—preparing to cross blades with a man who was, by every measure, a king in all but name, perhaps even something more. A foreign lord who had challenged him seemingly out of boredom.

Certainly, the prospect of facing Lord Caria was not without allure. Arthur had heard the tales of the man’s strength from both him and Lord Baratheon, had witnessed glimpses of his land’s sorcery and strange beings that served under his command. What’s more, the foreigner’s very presence radiated power, leaving no doubt he was a warrior of no small renown. And most alluring of all—he wielded a blade forged from the same heavenly metal as Dawn, though of utterly different shape. The thought of two swords of fallen stars crossing in combat was enough to stir even his disciplined heart.

As such, Arthur wanted to fight Lord Caria as Arthur Dayne.

Yet the duel also promised to serve his duty. To face the foreign lord would give both his liege, King Aerys, and his ward, Prince Rhaegar, a clearer sense of what power this stranger commanded. Additionally, Prince Rhaegar had been delighted by the notion, calling it a meeting of knighthoods—the knighthood of Westeros against that of the Lands Between—sentiment that Arthur found himself sharing. Since he had started protecting Rhaegar, Arthur began to admire the bright boy, his earnest wish to mend the realm and bring prosperity to the Seven Kingdoms quite quietly infectious. Helping him would make Arthur happy.

And so, he also wanted to fight Lord Caria as a knight of the Kingsguard.

Still…

It all felt profoundly strange for reasons he could not explain.

They faced each other in the center of the courtyard, with Prince Rhaegar, Lord Baratheon, the Prince’s guards, and Lord Caria’s retainers forming a loose ring around them.

Arthur stood tall in his white armor, helm donned and his cloak laid aside for the duel. The Dawn rested easily in his hands, its pale, milky surface catching the light of the evening.

Opposite him, Hadwyn Caria looked almost defenceless by comparison. He wore only a deep blue tunic—the same as before—and no visible protection, as though unconcerned by the possibility of being hurt. His only ornament was the weapon he had summoned by some queer act of sorcery.

And what a weapon it was. Though said to be wrought of the same celestial ore as Dawn, it seemed its dark mirror: black as a starless night, its edge devouring light rather than reflecting it. The blade was long and slender, sharpened along one side, its crescent curve ending in a circular guard of alien design. It appeared impossibly light—almost fragile—but something about it made Arthur wary.

As Lord Caria approached the field, he idly twirled his blade, letting it whistle through the air in languid arcs. The motion was casual—lazy, even—but each sweep cut so fast that Arthur’s eyes could scarcely follow. The air itself seemed to warp around the blade’s passage, parting in faint, shimmering ripples.

The sight alone was enough for Arthur to know how this spar would end.

“Hah!” Hadwyn exclaimed as he reached his position, resting the weapon across his shoulder with a wolfish grin. “I almost forgot how fun it is to swing one of these again! Greatswords are simply… better, mind you—I doubt I’ll ever go back—but sometimes it’s good to revisit the classics!”

Arthur regarded him silently, uncertain how to respond. It was difficult to find the declaration amusing—or insulting—after witnessing those impossible motions.

Hadwyn seemed entirely unconcerned by the lack of reaction. He adjusted his grip, rolling his shoulders with an easy looseness.

“So,” he said at last, tone bright, “as I mentioned before—this is just a light stretch for me. Considering the, ah, differences in our cultures, I suspect that considering it a proper duel would end with me doing something rather…excessive. And I’d rather avoid unnecessary accidents.”

Arthur blinked, caught off guard by the remark. Hadwyn had not explicitly called it a duel—Arthur had simply assumed so.

“So,” Hadwyn continued breezily, “how about this: I’ll only block your strikes. You attack as you wish, and if you manage to cut me, we’ll make it a real fight as a reward. Sounds fair?”

Arthur could have taken offense—his pride as both knight and noble urged him to—but the memory of those impossible swings stayed his temper. He had seen enough to know the man wasn’t boasting idly, his proposal perhaps more a consideration for his opponent than anything.

“Of course,” Arthur replied evenly. “My duty is still to protect the prince. A simple spar seems like a wise option.”

“…I have a feeling we might have a different understanding of a simple spar, but—let’s assume we understand each other.” Lord Caria sighed, shaking his head. Then he straightened, his expression turning expectant. “At your leave, Arthur.”

The spar began.

Arthur advanced with deliberate precision, Dawn raised in a measured guard. His boots crunched against the stone, the faint wind whispering through his armor.

Lord Caria stood a few paces away, perfectly relaxed, his curved sword hanging loosely at his side. His posture radiated an unnerving calm, the man leisurely waiting for the strike.

Something deep within Arthur warned him—an instinct or Divine—that even approaching this man was perilous. But he pressed on. That knowledge changed nothing.

He struck, rules of their engagement making stalling pointless.

A swift diagonal cut aimed for the shoulder—sharp, precise, clean. In another bout, it might have seemed outrageous to deal such a lethal blow on the armorless enemy, but Arthur knew this opponent expected no less. His opponent demanded nothing less.

Unsurprisingly, Lord Caria raised his blade just enough to block the blow, his movement smooth, precise and impossible for Arthur to follow.

Steel met steel—yet it felt wrong. There was no recoil, no shock, no vibration through the arms. The collision was silent, heavy and absolute.

It was like striking a wall.

Arthur adjusted instantly, flowing into a follow-up cut from the opposite side. Then a thrust. Then a feint into a low sweep. Each motion was clean, disciplined, precise—textbook perfection born of endless repetition and natural talent.

And yet, every strike was turned aside with effortless grace.

Lord Caria’s blade moved too fast to follow, each parry so smooth it barely seemed real. There was no strain in his shoulders, no tightening of muscle, not even the faintest flicker of focus in his eyes. To Arthur, it felt less like crossing swords with a man and more like striking against the world itself—unyielding, eternal, immune to all mortal effort.

And still, he pressed on.

As he fought, Arthur felt a realization settle within him—one bizarre and almost incomprehensible.

Lord Caria’s movements were not, strictly speaking, perfect. There was a wildness to them—untamed rhythm most knights would have spent a lifetime purging from their form. Yet no matter how closely Arthur watched, he could not call them flawed. Every step, every arc, every turn of the wrist felt… right.

The foreign lord’s bladework carried something beyond technique. It was not style, nor discipline—it was truth. His movements were an expression of himself, pure and unrefined, as if his very being had taken the shape of a sword and learned to move. It was not a form to be learned or copied; it simply was.

Arthur found it inexplicable. It defied everything he knew—every rule, every principle upon which his entire life as a knight had been built.

And yet, the sight filled him not with repulsion, but awe.

So he continued.

He continued because he had to—because the exchange enthralled him, because each clash drew him deeper into that impossible rhythm. Because he was seeing a summit he could never reach, and there was something tragically beautiful in knowing that.

His arms began to ache. Muscles trembled beneath the weight of exhaustion. He changed rhythm, shifting into faster strikes—an overhead slash, a step-in thrust, a sharp half-turn parry flowing into a reverse cut.

Each motion was met with the same effortless stillness, Arthur’s sword glanced harmlessly aside.

Arthur’s breath grew ragged. Sweat slid down beneath his armor. his pulse roared in his ears. His precision faltered, timing wavered—the edge of his craft dulling beneath fatigue.

Still, the foreigner did not move to strike him. He stood unmoving, waiting, patient—an immovable point around which Arthur’s struggle simply broke and fell away.

At last, the knight stepped back, lowering Dawn, admission of defeat wordless but clear.

As the spar ended, Lord Caria tilted his head slightly.

“You know,” Lord Caria said, his tone conversational, no sign of strain on his body. “you’re actually quite good—if we’re judging purely by skill. Your form’s solid. Your bladework, rather clean. I find that rather commendable, especially as you are quite young.”

Arthur straightened, chest rising and falling. In another life, he might have bristled at such praise, one that could so easily be considered a mockery. But knowing the heights from which the praise was coming, he felt genuine pride. Still, something in the man’s tone suggested a but was coming.

Hadwyn looked at him with a half-serious suspicion. “Still, I don’t know why you are holding back.”

Arthur blinked, his confusion simply too great for the offense at his prowess being ridiculed to settle in. “…Holding back? I don’t understand, Lord Caria.”

And he didn’t. He had given everything—every ounce of focus, every refined motion born of years of discipline. He had nothing left to hold back.

He had shown the best of himself, and found it utterly outmatched, both in physical prowess and in pure skill.

Hadwyn gestured lazily toward the sword in Arthur’s hands. “Your weapon—it’s forged of meteoric ore, yes?”

Arthur nodded, his grip instinctively tightening around the pale blade. “That’s what the stories say, yes.”

“Then,” Hadwyn continued, tone light but with the faintest edge of curiosity, “shouldn’t you be using some gravitational power to unbalance me? Pull me toward you, make me stumble, something like that?”

Arthur blinked, not recognizing the word. “…Gravi—what?”

“Gravitational,” Hadwyn repeated dutifully. “Force that pulls surrounding objects toward the source. I suppose your sword might function differently—oddly pale as it is—but I assumed it would share at least some properties with my blade.”

Arthur frowned, futilely trying to understand the foreign noble. “Your blade, Lord Caria?”

Hadwyn glanced down at the black curve of metal in his hand and smiled faintly.

Suddenly, it pulsed with sudden violet light, the air around the foreign lord rippling as if reality itself shifted. Then, without warning, Arthur felt something grab him.

It was a pull—violent, impossible to resist—a force that seized his entire body and wrenched him forward. His boots scraped uselessly against the cobblestones as he was dragged toward Lord Caria, surrounding pebbles and dust his companions in the bizarre journey. He hit the ground hard at the man’s feet, armor clattering against stone. Dazed, Arthur looked up—and found the foreign lord smiling down at him.

“I meant something like that,” Lord Caria said dryly.

Arthur blinked, speechless for a long moment. His white armor was smeared with dust, his dignity more bruised than his body, but none of that seemed important at the moment.

“I—Dawn doesn’t have any power like that!” he finally managed, still stunned by the development as he slowly pushed himself from the ground.

Lord Caria simply raised an eyebrow in response. “I mean…have you tried?”

“…Well, no,” Arthur admitted, frowning in confusion. “But I imagine one of its previous bearers would have noticed if it did.”

The foreign lord hummed thoughtfully and extended a hand. “May I see your sword?”

Arthur hesitated, gaze flicking between the blade and the man before him. Handing over Dawn—Dayne’s most sacred heirloom—was no small thing, even if just for a moment. Yet despite the absurdity of it all—or perhaps because of it—he offered the sword. The foreign lord accepted it as though it were nothing more than a training blade.

Lord Caria turned the weapon slowly, eyes glinting with faint curiosity. Then, without warning, the pale blade flared with that same violet shimmer foreign lord’s own weapon previously did.

The pull came again.

Arthur barely had time to draw breath before the world lurched. The same irresistible force caught him, dragging him forward like a loose leaf in a gale. His boots left the ground, his body lifted, and he crashed once more into the dust—again at Lord Caria’s feet.

The inbetweener regarded the sword, then Arthur, and smiled. “Seems to work fine to me.”

Arthur lay flat on the ground, staring at the man incomprehensibly. His mind was a chaotic jumble, thousand fragmented thoughts chasing one another in circles—until, at last, one coherent question rose above the rest—

How?!

***

…i don’t know how to write sword duels.