The Tower of Joy, Dorne, 283AC
Ser Arthur Dayne, Knight of the Kingsguard and Sword of the Morning, stands at the sole window in the princess' quarters in the Tower of Joy. Calling it the princess' quarters is very generous, in Arthur's opinion. While the room may be spacious, it is sparsely decorated with a thin layer of sand and dust covering nearly everything. The princess rests on a large bed in the middle of the room. For Whylla, the midwife, there is a small cot in the corner. A table stands near the opposite wall, weighed down by books and letters from the crown prince, all unopened save one. Arthur had removed his white cloak long ago, a concession to both the heat and his own conscience. It was draped over a worn wooden chair that was next to the larger bed. Dawn was ever present at his side.
Arthur looks out the window, first at the blue sky, rose streaks just beginning to form, then at his sworn brothers standing guard, white cloaks nearly blinding in the bright Dornish sun. Days like this remind him of boyhood at the Water Gardens, playing in the waters with his sister Ashara, trailing after Prince Oberyn Nymeros Martell, trying to best Princess Elia Nymeros Martell at cyvasse. He thinks of happier times, when he was quick to laugh and even quicker to joke, when Elia was stronger, physically and mentally, and Ashara's eyes were always shining and dancing with happiness, not clouded with fear from months in the Red Keep. Of Elia, who he once believed to be impossibly strong, even after years of childhood illness. Of Oberyn, though not much every really changes with Oberyn, whose moods have ever been mercurial. Of Ashara, his dear sister, his only sibling to accompany him to the cesspool that is King's Landing.
Lyanna Targaryen, second wife to Rhaegar Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone, inhales sharply, bringing Arthur out of the past. He looks towards the bed, eyebrow raised in question.
"What's happening out there?"
"A fair bit less than what's happening in here, Your Grace," Arthur answers with a charming grin. "Ser Oswell and Ser Gerold languish in the sun and a star appears to be falling from the sky."
"A sight you Daynes must see often enough!"
"Oh aye, the heat is often too much for you sensitive northerners," Arthur laughs.
"And all that is less than childbirth, Ser Arthur?" Lyanna jokes, "Such silly fears men have."
"Aye," Arthur agrees with mocking sagacity, turning to the window once more. Lyanna's barking laugh is cut short by another groaning whimper.
"My son picked a fine time to announce himself," she says, one hand pushing her Stark brown hair out of her face while the other smooths slowly over her stomach.
"A daughter born under a falling star in lucky indeed," Arthur counters, eyes drawn toward the horizon.
"A son born under a falling star must indeed be fortunate. A sign of a great warrior, perhaps." Lyanna remarks drily, glaring lightly at Arthur's turned back.
"Rhaegar believes your child to be a princess of the Iron Throne, Your Grace," Arthur says, ignoring her glare. Movement in the distance draws his eyes and his shoulders tense slightly. He tries to sound nonchalant as he says, "Riders are approaching. Seven of them."
"Rhaegar knows nothing; it is a boy. More wolf than dragon, I hope. If Rhaegar wants a princess, he can birth her himself. The riders, can you see their sigils?" Her breathing a quickened again and she sits up in the bed, eyes shining brightly. "Cregan is a good name, don't you think? Or Brandon."
"Dyanna, perhaps, or Alysanne. Or Visenya, as the prince suggested." Arthur answered. "I only recognize the one sigil, Your Grace, and I'm sure I don't need to tell you which one it is."
"All Targaryen brides, are you trying to tell me something Arthur?" Lyanna mocks. "If a man cannot even deign to be present for his child's birth, then he has no say in the name. Any wedded man knows as much, Arthur, so I shall not fault you for your ignorance."
"Surely a man who thinks he can keep his distressed wife locked in a tower knows at least one thing," Arthur shoots a grin over his shoulder at Lyanna. "That he won't be wed for much longer. Twin axes under a crown on a yellow background, a black horse on an orange background, a lizard-lion on a green back."
"I can leave this tower any time I wish, Arthur Dayne! With Thorne in my hand, nothing can stop me!" Lyanna steadies her breathing. "Dustin, Ryswell, and Reed. And the others?"
"With Thorne in your hand and Arthur Dayne by your side, you mean. A gauntlet on a red backing, wolves on a gray backing with black trim, and three buckets on blue with a checked trim." Arthur turns to look at Lyanna. "And a gray wolf on white leading them all."
"Glover, Cassel, and Wull with Ned, then. It's time." A short scream of pain escapes her and Arthur abandons the window to sit by her bed.
"What would you have me do, She-wolf?" Arthur asks as he approaches. "How can I help?"
Whylla responds, "You can leave this to the one who actually knows what she's doing, Ser. There's no use for swords here anymore."
"Playing with swords is what got her into this in the first place, Whylla!" Arthur laughs wryly.
Lyanna steals his hand and clutches it tightly. Red-faced from exertion, she glares at the Sword of the Morning. "Oh, aye, and what a great help the Sword of the Morning has been so far! Whylla is the only one of real help right now, you useless knight."
Arthur smiles at her, the kind of smile one gives to a child throwing a tantrum, while Whylla hands Lyanna a cup of water and fluffs her pillow.
"Men are only ever useful for one thing, Your Grace," Whylla remarks slyly, her head bowed to hide her mischievous grin, "Swordplay. As I'm sure Ser Arthur knows better than most."
"I'll have you I'm excellent at swordplay!"
"Enough about swords, please! I've a job to do, and so do you Arthur!" she grits her teeth. "You promised! Now go!"
"With all due respect, Your Grace," Arthur begins, his teasing expression replaced with concern, "I don't think-"
"No, you don't! It's time, right now, it's time!" Lyanna screams again in pain, hearing the shouting from outside and the clashing of steel. "Remember the plan, Arthur, please. Else I will wield Thorne and do it myself!"
Arthur grins and tries to joke, "Your Grace, it would be a bit difficult for you to wield a sword in your condition." It falls flat, but he squeezes Lyanna's hand reassuringly. "Are you sure you still want to do this, She-wolf?"
"Ser Arthur Dayne," Lyanna says in the voice of a perfect southron lady while crushing his hand, causing him to flinch, "Your princess kindly asks you to shut the fuck up and do as she says. Now."
Arthur huffs a small laugh and pries his hand from hers as the midwife, Whylla, places a cool cloth on Lyanna's forehead. With a flourish that earns him a strained smile from Lyanna, Arthur dons his white cloak once more; Whylla whispers softly to the princess, trying to soothe her pain. The heavy wooden door shuts behind him and Arthur leans against it for a moment, preparing himself for what is to come. He closes his eyes and breathes deeply, thinks of his sister Ashara and of the Princess Elia, and of the gods he swore himself to so long ago. He steadies himself, quiets his mind, turns away from the disappointed ghosts of his fellow Kingsguard, pushes off the door and descends the stairs of the Tower of Joy. The sounds of fighting grow louder and the sky begins to bleed. The comet streaks ever closer across the sky.
When he reaches the bottom of the steps, only Ser Oswell Whent and Eddard Stark still stand, swords clashing. Stark sees Arthur, and retreats slightly, sword still at the ready. Arthur fingers his white cloak as he approaches the two and unsheathes Dawn slowly. He stops next to Oswell, head bowed, and tightens his grip on the shining sword. It is time.
"Arthur! You're here to help me kill the Usurper's Dog, then?" Oswell grins, "It took seven of them to kill Gerold, but they'll need an army if they hope to best us!"
Oswell glances in Arthur's direction briefly, but not long enough to see Dawn arcing towards him. As the pain tears through him, Oswell drops his sword and staggers, wide eyes staring at Arthur. Arthur grips Oswell's arm as he falls, and stares into his eyes as he slips a dagger into his chest. A quick death is all he can offer now.
"Forgive me, brother," Arthur whispers over Ser Oswell Whent's corpse. He closes Oswell's eyes and stands. He turns, Dawn hanging limply in his hand now, to the shocked face of the princess' brother. "Her Grace requests your presence, Lord Stark." Arthur sheathes Dawn and removes his white cloak, once a source of pride, and drops it on the ground. There is no need for it anymore. He glances once more at Stark, eyes lingering the hands tightening around the sword, before returning to the tower. The princess has need of him still, no matter how much she would deny it. The dead have no need of him anymore.
Eddard Stark hesitates, sword wavering in the air, as Arthur Dayne walks away from the bodies of his sworn brothers. His eyes stray to Howland Reed's. Is it a trick? Is a Kingsguard still a Kingsguard if he slays his own brothers? Eddard dithers, caught between lowering his sword or driving it into Dayne's back. Howland readies a small dagger, nodding at his liege-lord. Eddard inches forward, a ghost of a thought towards killing his sister's captor, when Lyanna wails from within the tower. Dayne startles takes the stairs quickly, panic evident in his stride. Eddard drops his sword in surprise and runs, following closely behind, stumbling briefly over the body of Ser Gerold Hightower.