The Red Mountains of Dorne
The heat in Dorne was a physical weight. It pressed down on the shoulders, dried the throat, and turned the air into a shimmering haze. The red rocks of the Prince's Pass radiated warmth like a kiln, baking the dust until it choked the lungs.
Ned Stark wiped sweat from his brow, his leather glove coming away damp and stained with red grit. Beside him, Howland Reed sat on his lizard-lion skin saddle, looking unbothered. The crannogman was used to humidity, but the dry, baking heat of the mountains was a different beast entirely. Yet, he held his bronze spear with steady hands, his green eyes fixed on the horizon.
"We're here," Howland said quietly.
Ned looked up.
Rising from the jagged red rocks like a lonely finger of stone was the tower. It wasn't a fortress. It was a watchtower, round and simple, built of sandstone blocks that had been scoured smooth by centuries of wind.
The Tower of Joy.
It looked abandoned. There were no banners flying from the parapets. No guards patrolling the ridge. Just the whistling of the wind through the pass and the screaming of a hawk high above.
But at the base of the tower, standing in the shadow of the entrance, were three figures.
They wore white cloaks that gleamed in the harsh sunlight, stark against the red stone. Their armor was white enamel, polished to a mirror sheen. They stood perfectly still, like statues placed there by the gods to guard a holy secret.
Ned closed his eyes for a heartbeat, extending his senses.
He felt them.
Gerold Hightower. The White Bull. A presence like a granite mountain—heavy, immovable, rooted in duty.
Oswell Whent. The Bat. Sharp, cynical, a coil of dark humor hiding a lethal edge.
Arthur Dayne. The Sword of the Morning.
Arthur felt different. In the shimmering web of life Ned had learned to perceive, Arthur wasn't a wall or a blade. He was a star. A point of absolute, blinding focus. He was the deadliest man Ned had ever sensed.
And behind them, up in the tower...
Ned pushed his senses higher. He braced himself for the feeling of a dying flame, of blood and endings.
But he didn't find it.
He felt life. Strong, vibrant life. A woman, anxious and weary, but burning bright. And within her... a second life. A strong, steady heartbeat.
She's safe, Ned realized, relief washing over him like cool water. She hasn't given birth yet. There is time.
"Stay close," Ned murmured to Howland. "But do not engage unless I fall."
"I will watch," Howland promised, gripping his spear. "The moss does not fight the stone; it waits."
They rode closer. The hooves of their horses crunched loudly on the loose scree, echoing in the narrow pass.
Fifty yards from the tower, Ned reined in his horse. He swung down from the saddle, his boots hitting the dust with a heavy thud. He reached over his shoulder and unslung Ice. The massive greatsword, still sheathed in wolfskin, felt comforting against his back.
He walked forward. Howland followed a pace behind.
The three Kingsguard watched them come. They didn't draw their weapons. They didn't shout a challenge. They just watched with the calm assurance of men who had never known defeat. They were the best of the best, the white shields that guarded the dragon.
Ned stopped ten paces away. The silence stretched, heavy and taut as a bowstring.
"I looked for you on the Trident," Ned said finally. His voice was hoarse from the dust, but steady.
"We were not there," Ser Gerold Hightower answered. His voice was deep, gravelly, like stones grinding together. The Lord Commander stood in the center, a tower of a man.
"Woe to the Usurper if we had been," Ser Oswell Whent added, a thin, black-humored smile touching his lips as he sharpened a whetstone against his thumb.
"I know," Ned said. "Robert killed Rhaegar. The war is over. King's Landing has fallen. Aerys is dead."
The three knights didn't flinch. They didn't look surprised. They stood like men who had already accepted their ghosts.
"Ser Jaime killed him," Ned continued, watching their eyes for any flicker of reaction. "He did it to save the city from wildfire."
"A tragedy," Arthur Dayne said. His voice was sad, melodic—the voice of a poet who happened to be the greatest killer in the world. "But Kings die. And new Kings rise."
"Viserys has fled to Dragonstone," Ned said, pressing the point. "Queen Rhaella is with him. If you are the Kingsguard, why are you not guarding the new King? Your vows bind you to the crown, not a tower in the middle of nowhere."
"Our Prince wanted us here," Arthur said simply.
"Your Prince is dead," Ned said brutally. "And his wife and children are in Winterfell. I saved them from Tywin Lannister. They are safe."
Arthur's eyes widened slightly. A flicker of emotion—relief?—crossed his face. It was the first crack in the armor. "You saved them?"
"I did. Elia Martell lives. Rhaenys lives. Aegon... died in the chaos, but his mother and sister are safe."
"Then you are a man of honor, Lord Stark," Arthur said, nodding respectfully. "As Ashara said you were."
The mention of Ashara hit Ned like a physical punch. He thought of her violet eyes, waiting in Starfall. The promise he had made.
"I am here for my sister," Ned said, his voice hardening. "Is she in there?"
"She is," Gerold Hightower confirmed.
"I want to take her back to Winterfell," Ned said. "Let me pass."
"We cannot do that," Gerold said, his hand drifting to the hilt of his massive greatsword. "We swore a vow."
"To keep a brother from his sister?" Ned asked. "Aerys is dead. Rhaegar is dead. There is no need for more blood."
"The Kingsguard does not flee," Gerold said, his voice hardening into iron. "Then or now."
"Then go to your new King," Ned argued. "Viserys needs you."
"We swore a vow," Arthur repeated softly. He looked at Ned, his violet eyes sad but resolute. "And now it begins."
Ned looked at the finest knight who ever lived. He looked at the tower where his sister waited.
He shifted his stance. He didn't summon magic. He didn't call on lightning. He summoned his training. Every hour of sweat in the courtyard, every lesson from the Wiki on leverage and biomechanics, every spar with the Greatjon. The 10x multiplier had turned his body into a weapon of precision.
"No," Ned said, his voice cold as the grave. "Now it ends."
He reached over his shoulder and gripped the hilt of Ice.
Shinnng.
The sound of Valyrian steel leaving the scabbard was a song of death.
"Howland," Ned said without looking back. "Stay back."
Howland nodded and stepped back, leaning on his spear.
Oswell Whent laughed. It was a sharp, barking sound. "You think you can take three of the Kingsguard alone, Stark? You've got the Wolf Blood, I'll give you that."
"I have more than blood," Ned said.
"Enough talk," Gerold Hightower roared.
The Lord Commander drew his greatsword. Oswell Whent drew his longsword. They moved together, a practiced unit, flanking Ned.
Arthur Dayne did not move. He stood by the tower door, his hand resting on the pommel of Dawn. He watched. He was testing the waters.
He was wrong to wait.
Gerold attacked first. He was a powerhouse, swinging his heavy blade with the momentum of a falling tree.
Ned didn't block. He didn't flinch. His perception, sharpened by the Force, saw the attack unfold in agonizing detail. The shift of weight. The rotation of the hips.
Ned stepped inside the arc.
He moved with a speed that defied the weight of his armor. Ice flashed.
Parry.
Ned deflected Gerold's strike with the flat of his blade, guiding the massive sword into the dirt. In the same motion, he spun.
Oswell Whent was lunging, aiming for Ned's exposed back.
Ned sensed it. He dropped to one knee. Whent's sword passed harmlessly over his head.
From his crouch, Ned swept Ice in a low, brutal circle. The reach of the greatsword was his advantage. The tip caught Oswell Whent behind the knees, shearing through the armor joints.
Whent cried out, collapsing into the dust.
Gerold Hightower roared, recovering his guard and bringing his sword down in a vertical chop.
Ned rose. He exploded upward, driving Ice up to meet the falling blade.
Clang.
He caught Gerold's blade on his crossguard. Then, using pure, enhanced leverage, he twisted. He shoved the White Bull backward. Gerold stumbled.
Ned followed the momentum. Strike. Strike. Thrust.
Two blows to batter the guard aside. The third was a clean thrust through the breastplate. Valyrian steel pierced the white enamel and the heart beneath.
Gerold Hightower gasped and fell.
Ned flicked the blood from Ice.
Ten moves. That was all it had taken.
He turned to the tower.
Arthur Dayne stood straight. His face was pale, his violet eyes locked on Ned. He had seen it. The speed. The precision. The utter lack of hesitation.
"You are not the swordsman I heard of," Arthur said quietly.
"We all change," Ned said. He pointed the tip of Ice at the knight. "Step aside, Arthur. Please. I don't want to kill my future brother-in-law."
Arthur's expression cracked. A flash of pain. "Ashara..."
"She loves me," Ned said. "And I love her. Step away, Arthur. Let me meet my sister."
"I can't," Arthur said. The sadness in his voice was heartbreaking. "I wish I could. But the Kingsguard is my life. If I break this vow, I am nothing."
He reached over his shoulder and drew Dawn. The blade was pale as milkglass, alive with light. Then, he drew a second sword from his hip—a castle-forged longsword.
Two swords. The best swordsman in the world.
"Come then, Lord Stark," Arthur said.
Ned sighed. "Get ready."
He charged.
This wasn't a slaughter like the others. This was a duel.
Ned swung Ice in a lateral cut. Arthur caught it with his steel sword, diverting the blow, and thrust Dawn at Ned's throat in the same heartbeat.
Ned twisted his neck. Dawn grazed his cheek, drawing a thin line of blood.
They circled.
Arthur was a whirlwind. He fought with two blades as if he had four arms. He attacked from angles that shouldn't have been possible.
Clang. Clang. Clang.
Sparks flew as Ice met Dawn.
Ned was on the defensive, he didn't want to give her brother's corpse to Ashara as wedding gift.
Arthur's skill was overwhelming. But Ned had the 10x multiplier. Every exchange, every parry, every feint—he was learning. He was downloading Arthur's rhythm.
He feints high with the steel, strikes low with Dawn. He pivots on the left foot.
Ned began to adapt. He stopped reacting and started predicting.
Arthur feinted with the steel sword.
Ned didn't bite. He stepped in, using the length of Ice to control the distance. He caught the steel sword on his blade and twisted.
The sheer strength behind the move—enhanced by the Force but applied through perfect leverage—was too much for the castle-forged steel.
Snap.
Arthur's off-hand sword broke near the hilt.
Arthur didn't panic. He tossed the hilt aside and gripped Dawn with both hands.
"Now we are even," Arthur said, breathing hard.
"Not quite," Ned replied.
He dropped his guard. He stood completely still, Ice held loosely at his side. He wasn't baiting; he was reading.
Arthur lunged. A thrust, straight for the heart. Perfect form. Perfect speed.
But Ned was there.
He sidestepped. A movement so minimal it barely stirred the dust. Dawn passed through the space he had occupied a fraction of a second before.
Ned brought the pommel of Ice down.
He didn't cut. He struck Arthur's wrists with the heavy steel counterweight of his greatsword.
Crack.
Bone gave way. Arthur cried out, his grip failing. Dawn tumbled from his hands, landing in the red sand.
The Sword of the Morning was weaponless.
Arthur looked at his empty hands, then at Ned. He reached for his dagger with a shaking hand.
"Stop," Ned commanded.
Arthur drew the dagger. "I swore a vow."
Ned dropped Ice.
He stepped inside Arthur's guard. He didn't use magic. He used a simple, brutal cross-counter he had practiced a thousand times.
His fist connected with Arthur's jaw.
The impact was solid, heavy, and final. Arthur Dayne's head snapped back. His eyes rolled up. He crumpled to the ground, unconscious.
Silence fell over the Tower of Joy.
Ned stood over the fallen knight, his chest heaving. He wiped the blood from his cheek. He looked at his hands. They were trembling, but not from fear. From the sheer intensity of the focus he had maintained.
"Tie him up," Ned wheezed to Howland. "Use the good rope."
Howland stepped forward, eyes wide. "You defeated him. Without a scratch."
"He scratched me," Ned pointed to his cheek.
Ned picked up Ice. He sheathed it. Then he walked over to Dawn.
He picked up the pale blade. It was light, humming with a warmth that felt like morning sunlight. He walked back to Arthur and stuck the sword in the sand next to his head.
"Sleep well," Ned whispered.
He turned to the tower.
There was no sound from above. No screaming. Just the wind.
But Ned could feel it. The life inside. It was waiting.
He walked to the door of the tower. He placed his hand on the wood.
She's there. She's safe.
Ned took a deep breath, steeling himself for a different kind of battle. He pushed the door open and began the long climb up the stairs.