darling, dearest, dead, 𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐇𝐔𝐑 𝐃𝐀𝐘𝐍𝐄

𝐃𝐀𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐆, 𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐓, 𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐃.

DARLING, DEAREST, DEAD.

A MAN THAT SHE DESIRED,
A MAN THAT SHE HATED,
A MAN THAT SHE LOVED.

AND EACH TIME HIS FACE
REMAINS THE SAME.

AS A SWORN BROTHER OF the Kingsguard he will only ever have his vows, Arthur Dayne knows that. A wife and children are forbidden fruit he may never taste — and he has never been tempted. Until Astoria Lazhar crosses his path. She is a sweet poison, or hot oil and he the wick of a lamp desperate to burn. Yet he cannot intervene because of duty — the duty he gave himself. His duty is to never love, to serve only the crown, to die. Arthur knows in his soul that he wishes more could grow between them than this, but he has forsworn wife and children, has sworn celibacy.

     They are what the poets write about, for it is a tale as old as time itself — the knight and the maiden fair. However, there is a different ending to each story, some bittersweet, some more than but a tale.

     She is the sun of the east, with haunting green eyes, that are flecked with death and thick locks as dark as night, but even suns can burn out. He is the Sword of the Morning, with veins full of true justice and the soul of a fierce warrior, whose heart beats to the sound of war, but dusk shall set.

A match made by the gods. Yet fatalism comes in many shades. For Arthur Dayne that shade is love.