"New Moon!" gasped Richard, steward of Harrenhal, his voice sharp with disbelief. "Isn't that… too much?"
Lady Shella Whent said nothing. She simply turned her head and gave Richard a cold glance, the kind of glance that reminded everyone in the hall that she still ruled these ancient halls.
Richard promptly lowered his gaze and said no more. Without further protest, he bowed and exited the hall to fetch the sword from the family vaults.
Desmond, standing close beside Arthur, whispered under his breath. "New Moon… Gods, Lady Whent is truly generous."
Arthur, unfamiliar with the name, raised an eyebrow. He sensed the sword's importance, yet it escaped him. "Is it a Valyrian steel blade?" he asked, confused by everyone's strong reactions.
Patrick turned to him, his face serious for once. "You really haven't heard of it? New Moon was forged from a fallen star—meteorite iron—just like Dawn, the ancestral blade of House Dayne."
Arthur's curiosity deepened.
"Dawn's wielded by the Sword of the Morning, the greatest knight of each generation of House Dayne," Patrick explained, almost reverently. "It's said that only those worthy of great honor can even lift it. The last to bear it was Ser Arthur Dayne. They called him the best swordsman alive. He fought beside Prince Rhaegar and died at the Tower of Joy—took down four men with a single swing, or so they say."
"While New Moon isn't quite Dawn," Desmond added, "it was forged of the same metal. A rare gift indeed. A sword born from the stars, wielded only by the trusted and honored."
Arthur glanced over to Patrick and noticed the look in his eyes—half awe, half envy. The heir of Seagard tried to hide it, but it was there: the bitterness that he hadn't been chosen.
Arthur's thoughts swirled. He felt a strange mix of shame, anticipation, and pride. Shame for not recognizing such a famous blade. Anticipation, because he'd long needed a proper greatsword. And pride—because despite his ignorance, he had been the one entrusted with this blade, not the noble-born Patrick.
Moments later, Richard returned. In his arms was a long, sheathed blade, its black leather grip wrapped tight with silver threading. The crossguard bore a crescent moon motif, and the scabbard shimmered subtly with dark blue steel. He presented it to Lady Whent, who took it with careful grace.
With a slight nod from her, Richard stepped forward and held the sword out to Arthur.
"Milady… this is too much. I cannot accept such a treasure," Arthur said respectfully—though his hands moved swiftly, taking the sword before the steward could change his mind. His eyes eagerly scanned the scabbard, appreciating the fine craftsmanship.
Lady Shella Whent smiled, warm and composed. "A sword like New Moon must be wielded, not gather dust. You've rid Harrenhal of a threat that has plagued us for weeks. This is not only a reward… it is a bond of trust between us. Let this gift stand as a symbol of our friendship."
As she spoke, her gaze drifted to the distant past. Seventeen years ago, in the spring of 281 AC, her husband Walter Whent had hosted the Great Tourney of Harrenhal. All the great lords and knights of the Seven Kingdoms had come. Even King Aerys II, long cloistered within the Red Keep, had graced them with his presence.
Back then, Harrenhal had been filled with music, laughter, and golden banners waving in the wind. The castle had flourished, its vaults rich, its halls crowded with allies. Lords and ladies had called her family friend, and their influence stretched far.
But now…
Time had withered their fortunes. Friends had died or vanished. War and shifting allegiances had left House Whent hollowed and fading. The lands were still fertile, the bones of power still there—but no one came anymore. They couldn't even handle wild boars without injury to their household.
If word spread, even the smallfolk would laugh.
Her voice trembled slightly with nostalgia as she added, "The family line is thin. And soon there may be no Whents left to wield such a sword. Letting it rot in dust would be a tragedy. Better that it finds purpose in your hands."
Arthur bowed his head solemnly. "Then I shall accept it."
He drew the blade slowly. The steel shimmered with a deep, silvery-blue hue, unlike any normal blade. It was lighter than expected, yet perfectly balanced. He gave it a few testing swings. The weight and grip were ideal. A perfect fit.
After a moment of admiration, Arthur sheathed the sword and fastened it to his belt. Then he turned back to Lady Whent and stepped forward.
"Countess," he said clearly, "I, Arthur, recognize you as my friend. If ever Harrenhal stands in danger again—no matter where I may be—I will come."
His words were deliberate, sincere.
He meant them.
The old lady's expression softened. Though she still covered her mouth with gloved hands, it was clear she smiled. "Then it seems I have received the promise of a true knight."
Arthur chuckled. "I'm no knight, my lady. Just a man who keeps his word."
He looked to Desmond and Patrick.
"I'll be leaving for King's Landing soon. There's a tournament I've set my sights on—but I promise, we'll meet again soon."
Though Lady Whent's gesture had carried the weight of noble pride, even a trace of vanity—as if rewarding a mere boar hunt with a priceless heirloom was nothing out of the ordinary—Arthur saw through it.
She'd given him a blade worthy of legend.
And he, Arthur Bracken, would not forget.
In his heart, he'd already made his decision.
When the wars to come finally reached Harrenhal—and they would—he would return.
For her.
For this place.
For the sword that now hung at his hip.
As soon as the tourney at King's Landing ended, Ser Gregor Clegane, known across Westeros as the Mountain That Rides, would begin his rampage. He would burn, pillage, and slaughter along the banks of the Red Fork, leaving villages in flames and smallfolk gutted in the streets. Soon after, King Robert Baratheon would die under suspicious circumstances on a boar hunt, and King's Landing would plunge into chaos as the Lannisters tightened their grip. Lord Tywin Lannister, ever calculating, would seize the moment, marching with twenty thousand men from Casterly Rock to sack the Riverlands and take Harrenhal with barely a fight.
But in this current timeline, where fate had already shifted slightly—some of that might not come to pass.
The next time Arthur would cross paths with Lady Shella Whent, the weary but proud Lady of Harrenhal, would be during this violent and uncertain time—when fire and steel returned to the Riverlands.
Lady Whent gave a small nod, unaware of the weight those future days would carry, and without questioning Arthur's words, motioned for Richard to escort them out.
After brief farewells from Patrick and Desmond, the group departed from Harrenhal, its shadowed towers receding behind them as thunderclouds rolled in above.
…
"It looks like rain's coming," Desmond called over the wind. "We'd better pick up the pace!"
Arthur looked down at the horse beneath him. Its sides were lathered with sweat, its mouth foaming with exhaustion.
"Not happening," Arthur grunted. "My horse is about to drop dead. We push it harder, it won't make another mile."
Patrick chuckled as he trotted up alongside him, nudging his own horse forward with a playful kick. "Well, whose fault is that? Poor beast's hauling you, a warhammer the size of a child, a broadsword, and enough baggage for a lord's retinue."
Arthur sighed. "I know, I know. Should've bought a spare when we left Lord Harroway's Town. One horse isn't enough, not for this kind of travel."
The group slowed down, adjusting their pace to match Arthur's. The road ahead was long, and the clouds hung heavy like sodden wool above their heads.
Each man silently hoped they'd stumble across a village or hamlet before the skies truly broke.
But the gods had other plans.
Big, fat raindrops began to fall, pounding down with little warning. The sudden storm swept across the flatlands, washing away the stifling heat of the day—but it also made their journey infinitely harder.
"Let's hope your horse makes it to the next inn," Jules muttered from behind, riding close to his nephew.
Arthur glanced back, his face already wet with rain. "Why'd you have to say that? Now I know it won't."
Patrick blinked. "What? What does saying that have to do with anything?"
Arthur grinned despite himself. "There's a saying—when you think too hard about something not going wrong, that's usually the moment it does. Like fate hears you tempting it."
Jules nodded, water dripping from his beard. "He's right. Been on the road for over twenty years. Every time someone says 'it can't get worse,' it does. The gods don't like arrogance."
Patrick scoffed. "Gods above, are you two actually blaming me? What's next—bad luck from sneezing?"
As if on cue, Arthur suddenly felt his balance shift. He threw himself sideways off the saddle, rolling in the mud as his horse gave a final choking sound and collapsed with a wet thud. The animal twitched once, its eyes glazing over, foam still bubbling at its lips. It wasn't going to get up again.
"Damn it…" Arthur muttered, wiping mud from his face.
Patrick stared, slack-jawed. "Are you joking?"
Arthur gave him a look. "Still think words don't have power?"
And then the sky truly darkened. The storm thickened around them, wind howling, trees bending under the weight of it. Visibility dropped. Everything—road, horizon, even the faint outlines of hills—blurred beneath a curtain of pounding rain.
Westeros was a land that remembered. And when the gods sent rain, it was never just water.
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