ASOIAF- The sworn knight, killer of 100 men.

Okay listen listen listen, I'm experimenting with potential romance. If you guys rock with it gladly let me know if not gladly let me know that as well and I'll scrub this chapter and continue with the ideas I had planned originally. Figured I'd liven up the life of my guy

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Nay

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Chapter 7: The Quiet Before the Storm

Ten years later…

The halls of Sunspear had changed over the years. New banners flew. New stories whispered along its walls. But within the blood-red stone, one constant remained.

Ser Michael.

Wearing a black surcoat with a silver dragon curled over a burning sword, he stood in the practice yard at dawn, guiding Prince Aegon's sword arm through another routine.

"Too tight on the grip. You're strangling it, not wielding it," Michael said, his voice low but firm.

"Sorry, Ser. Again?" Aegon asked, panting through gritted teeth.

Michael nodded. "Again. This time, move like you mean it."

The boy—no, not a boy anymore. A man of seventeen with the sharp cheekbones of his mother and the silver hair of his father—struck forward again, sweat flinging off his brow. And for once, Michael allowed himself a slight smile.

He was proud.

Of him. Of his men. Even of Arthur Dayne, now standing lazily against a pillar chewing on some fruit and offering unwanted commentary.

"You're going to burn that boy out before midday," Arthur called over. "He's royalty, not a warhorse."

Michael didn't look at him. "And yet a warhorse would already have better footwork."

"Ha! Harsh."

Aegon paused, glancing between the two. "Should I be insulted or flattered?"

"Both," they said at the same time.

Later, as the sun crested high and the palace resumed its usual pace, Michael wandered through the quiet halls toward the solar. He was meant to report to Prince Doran—now frailer, slower, but no less cunning—but someone else had requested his presence today.

When he arrived, the door was already open.

Inside, Elia sat by the window, her face half-lit by the soft golden glow of the afternoon sun. Her dark hair had streaks of silver now, but her beauty hadn't waned—in fact, it had only deepened, like a blade polished by years rather than dulled.

"You summoned me, my lady?" Michael asked, entering with respectful restraint.

She turned, smiling softly. "You still call me that. After all this time."

Michael said nothing.

"You've fought assassins. Foiled plots. Helped my son grow into a man. And still, you refuse to look me in the eye when I call for you."

His gaze finally lifted to hers. "I don't see a queen. I see a woman who carries the world on her shoulders. I just try not to add to that weight."

Elia stood, slowly walking to him. "And yet, Ser Michael, you are one of the only people who ever lightens it."

They stood close now. So close, the warmth between them was almost a language. Michael looked down, uncertain—he had slain monsters, stood alone against impossible odds, and yet now he was hesitant. Not afraid. Just reverent.

"You should know," she said gently, "Aegon asked about you this morning."

"Oh?"

"He… asked if I loved you."

Michael blinked, stunned. "And what did you tell him?"

"I told him the truth. That I don't know yet. But if the gods grant us peace, I might find the answer."

Michael reached for her hand. "That peace… might be closer than you think."

They stood in silence, their hands entwined.

Elsewhere…

In the chambers given to Aegon, the young prince sat beside his sister Rhaenys, now a striking girl with wit as sharp as her tongue.

"You asked her, didn't you?" Rhaenys said, teasing. "About Michael."

Aegon shrugged. "Of course. He's been here my whole life. He guards her like a shadow and never asks for anything."

"Except your throne back," she said with a smirk.

Aegon laughed, leaning back. "He doesn't even want that. He wants me to have it. He looks at me like I'm worth something… like my father's ghost doesn't define me."

Rhaenys smiled softly. "And if he marries our mother?"

"I'd call him father," Aegon said without hesitation. "Gladly."

He stood, walking to the window, gazing out across the Dornish sands.

"Besides, he's the only man I know who could beat Arthur Dayne in a spar and then eat three chickens afterward without saying a word."

Nightfall.

Michael sat alone atop one of Sunspear's outer towers, a place he often retreated to when the dreams returned. Dreams of war, fire, screams, and the monstrous shadow of Gregor Clegane looming behind every corner.

But tonight was different.

Footsteps again—soft ones. Familiar.

"Elia," he said without looking.

"You always know when it's me," she said, coming to stand beside him.

They sat in silence for a time. Then she laid her head gently against his shoulder.

"Your life has been war," she said quietly. "And pain. I've read it in your scars, seen it in your eyes. But here, with me… you don't have to be a weapon anymore."

Michael didn't reply for a long time. Finally, he said:

"If I let myself feel that… I may never want to leave this tower."

"Then don't," she whispered. "Not tonight."

And so, for the first time in years, Ser Michael rested. Not out of exhaustion. Not from battle. But because someone finally asked him to stay.

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The dream returned.

Blood on stone. The smell of burnt wood. Screams muffled by steel. The face of a child he never saw again—red, not from laughter, but from the gaping wound that had been carved into her throat.

Michael woke in a cold sweat.

He rose without thinking, shirtless and barefoot, his sword half-drawn from beneath the bed. But no threat lingered—just moonlight slicing through the windowpanes and the sound of nightbirds echoing in the warm Dornish air.

He exhaled slowly.

Then he heard it: the rhythmic clack of metal on metal. Not battle. Practice.

Someone was in the sparring yard.

Michael dressed in silence and made his way down the winding halls of Sunspear until he reached the open sands of the courtyard. There, beneath the light of the twin moons, stood Arthur Dayne—shirtless, glistening with sweat, moving like wind through silk. The Dawn blade swept and turned in his hand as if it were born from him.

He wasn't fighting ghosts.

He was reliving them.

Michael leaned against a pillar for a time before finally saying, "You dance prettier than you fight."

Arthur didn't stop. "Then you must've been blind the night you hit me. I've never seen a punch that ugly."

Michael chuckled despite himself, then stepped into the yard.

"I thought only I couldn't sleep."

"I rarely do," Arthur replied, finally lowering his blade. "Not anymore."

The two men stood in silence beneath the stars—one the Sword of the Morning, the other the Butcher of the Red Keep. Both legends now, and both visibly tired of what that meant.

"Dream again?" Arthur asked.

Michael nodded. "You?"

"Didn't even get that far," he said, sitting down on a nearby bench and tossing a water skin to Michael. "If I close my eyes too long, I see Rhaegar on the Trident. The look in his eyes when he realized Robert wasn't breaking."

Michael took a drink, then sat across from him. "You still love him."

Arthur looked up at the stars. "I loved a man who thought he could change the world with music and prophecy. But what I learned far too late is that no one sings a kingdom back into shape."

A moment passed. The wind picked up.

"You think you could've stopped it?" Michael asked.

Arthur shrugged. "Maybe. Maybe not. But I should've been there."

Michael leaned back. "You weren't the only one who vanished. Plenty of good men ran from that war. At least you came back."

Arthur looked at him—his expression unreadable. "And you never ran from anything?"

Michael stared at the ground, jaw tight. "I ran once."

"Who?"

"My brother," Michael replied quietly. "Sellsword. Died for nothing. I was supposed to be there. We'd made a pact to watch each other's backs. I got drunk and woke up too late. Found him halfway flayed by the time I got to the camp."

Arthur didn't speak. Not out of discomfort. Out of respect.

"I swore I'd never run again," Michael continued. "Not from blood. Not from pain. Not from death."

A breeze carried sand between them, whispering like ghosts.

Arthur finally spoke. "I see the way Aegon looks at you. It's not fear. Not awe. It's something more dangerous."

Michael raised a brow. "And that is?"

"Faith," Arthur said. "He believes in you like the North believes in their gods. Be careful with that, Michael. If you ever fall… it won't just break his heart. It'll shatter his soul."

Michael looked to the tower where Aegon slept, then to the distant rooms where Elia lay.

"I won't fall," he said simply.

Arthur smirked. "Good. Because I'm too old to become a full-time father figure to a teenage dragon."

They shared a dry laugh.

Michael stood again, cracking his neck. "You staying up all night?"

Arthur rose too, stretching his arms. "Might as well. Dorne's too hot for sleep anyway."

Michael turned, beginning to walk off—then paused. "Arthur."

The Sword of the Morning looked over.

Michael's voice was calm but firm. "I still don't forgive you. Not yet. But… I don't hate you anymore either.

Arthur nodded slowly. "That's more than I deserve."

"And if you ever run again," Michael added, "I will chase you. And this time I won't just break your jaw. I'll take your damn sword and rename it."

Arthur grinned, unsheathing Dawn and resting it on his shoulder. "Fair enough. Just don't rename it Biter or some nonsense."

Michael disappeared into the corridor, leaving Arthur to the quiet. He looked up at the stars once more, whispered something under his breath, and then resumed his silent dance.

This time, it wasn't a dance of ghosts.

It was practice for what lay ahead.