Game of Thrones Iron Stark

Tony was halfway through the corridor outside the feast hall when a familiar voice called his name.

He turned and found himself face to face with a tall knight in white armor etched with delicate golden feathers. The man's helm was tucked under one arm, revealing sharp features and calm gray eyes.

"Brand Hightower," Tony said, smiling despite himself. "Or should I say the Knight of a Hundred Birds?"

Brand Hightower returned the smile. His armor was extraordinary—lighter than normal plate but clearly stronger, the feather motifs worked in some pale, expensive alloy that caught the torchlight like real plumage. At his hip hung a longsword with a tower-shaped hilt, the ancestral weapon of House Hightower.

"I didn't expect to see you here," Brand said. "Are you entering the lists? Even with your skill, cutting through hundreds of men won't be easy. I only survived because of this armor and the Valyrian steel at my side."

Tony shook his head. "I'm just here to watch. What brings House Hightower to King's Landing? Your family has always preferred trade to politics."

Brand's mouth quirked. "Times change. Our liege lords, the Tyrells, came. So we came. This visit to the capital may be remembered for a long time."

Tony studied him for a moment. "Willas Tyrell's legs have been fixed. You should go see him. I heard the two of you were close once."

Brand's expression didn't change, but his answer was immediate. "No. I'm a vegetarian. I prefer green things. I am Hightower."

He inclined his head and walked on, white cloak brushing the stone.

---

Inside the hall, Garlan and Loras were still staring at their eldest brother in disbelief.

Willas Tyrell stood on his own two feet, smiling faintly as he tested his balance. The cane he had used for years was nowhere in sight.

"It feels good to be upright again," he said. "Tony Stark and his friend Coben did what no maester in Oldtown could manage."

Oberyn Martell approached without hesitation. The two men looked at each other for a long moment, then embraced like old friends who had once tried to kill one another.

"Willas," Oberyn said quietly.

"Oberyn."

Willas turned to his brothers. "Why were the two of you swinging steel at each other?"

Garlan opened his mouth, but Tyrion Lannister appeared at Willas's elbow with two cups of wine and a bright, dangerous smile.

"A simple misunderstanding, my lord. Nothing more. Isn't that right, Lord Stark?"

Ned Stark stepped up beside him, looking tired. "That's all it was. A misunderstanding."

Oberyn said nothing. He simply raised his cup and drank.

Tyrion pressed one of the cups into Willas's hand. "We haven't been properly introduced. Tyrion Lannister. It's an honor to finally meet the man who survived both my brother's lance and Oberyn Martell's poison."

Willas accepted the wine and drained it in one smooth motion. "The honor is mine."

---

The feast had grown loud and golden. Singers performed, dancers spun between the tables, and acrobats tumbled across the cleared space in the center of the hall. Robert was deep in his cups again, roaring with laughter at something one of the Tyrells had said.

Most of the great lords were drunk or pretending to be. The night felt like it might stretch until dawn.

Then the doors opened.

A single knight walked in. He wore no helm. His armor was pale, almost silver-white, and a heavy cloak the color of the hour before sunrise hung from his shoulders. He carried no shield. Instead, a long, wrapped bundle rested across his back.

No one stopped him. He had the king's own invitation.

The knight crossed the hall without hurry and stopped directly in front of Eddard Stark.

Ned had been laughing at one of Robert's jokes. The sound died in his throat the moment he saw the man's face.

For several heartbeats the entire hall seemed to hold its breath.

Ned's voice came out hoarse.

"The Sword of the Morning… Arthur Dayne."

A ripple of shock moved through the nearest tables. Barristan Selmy rose from his seat at the high table, white cloak shifting. The old knight's eyes were sharp despite the wine.

"No," Barristan said firmly. "This man is too young. Arthur Dayne has been dead for fifteen years."

The stranger met Ned's gaze without blinking. Slowly, he reached over his shoulder and drew the sword from its plain leather scabbard.

The blade that came free was not steel. It was milk-white and alive with its own pale light. The edges looked sharp enough to cut air itself. Even from several feet away, Ned felt the cold kiss of it against his skin.

"I am the Sword of the Morning," the man said quietly. "And this is Dawn."

The hall had gone completely silent.

Ned Stark stared at the sword, then at the young man holding it. His face had gone pale.

"Then who the hell are you?" he asked.