The thundering of hooves bellowed beneath his mount as the young Howland Reed galloped through the rolling hills of Dorne. His thighs chafed from the ride and the reins blistered his palms, but still he ventured forward, the tall grass whipping at his legs all the while. Beside him rode the icy Ned Stark, brown hair flowing gallantly in the wind, the same hard and determined expression still chiseled onto his face. Howland felt honoured to be riding alongside such a swordsman, especially one who had emerged from such fresh victories at the Trident and Storm's End. It instilled him with hope and together the misfit band of seven from all regions of Westeros - Winterfell, The Neck and Dorne - closed in on their destination, the Tower of Joy. Howland Reed, Lord Willam Dustin, Ethan Glover, Martyn Cassel, Theo Wull, and Ser Mark Ryswell would be the few swords to aid Lord Stark that day.
Reed bore no excitement in his breast as the peak of the great stone tower crept into view, he knew what awaited him when he reached the tower, and who awaited them at the entrance. He pushed the thought out of his mind and focused on riding forward, ever forward. As they drew nearer to the Tower of Joy, he stared silently in awe at the spiralling height of the damn thing, it truly did tower above the surrounding mountainous landscape, rightfully earning its name, though perhaps Joy was not so apt. The party may not return as seven, they knew that, but still they rode on. The closer they drew to their journey's end, the more Reed worried about their combined swordsmanship, and how deep down he knew that even their seven swords may not be enough.
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity of non-stop riding, Stark and Reed arrived at the tower at last. They were greeted by the ominous sight of the stone walls and the sound of sharpening steel. As Howland dismounted his stallion he saw the shining silver of three Kingsguard, former Kingsguard, strolling slowly towards them across the bare, hard-packed earthen dirt. He spied the faces of Ser Oswell Whent, Ser Gerold Hightower; the Lord Commander of Aerys' Kingsguard, and the legendary knight Ser Arthur Dayne, blade spinning and twirling effortlessly in hand. Dayne's skill with the sword was unparalleled by anyone in the Seven Kingdoms, especially not anyone Reed rode with. All of Howland's fears rushed in deep into his bones and his hand set like concrete around the sword at his side.
Ned Stark looked fearless as he led his men towards the three awaiting knights, sword still safely tucked away in his sheath. Reed guessed that perhaps Stark wished to end this peacefully, but he knew that Kingsguard seldom died without doing their duty to the last. Nevertheless he followed obediently and silently as Ned attempted to converse with their opponents.
"Lord Stark," Ser Arthur greeted politely as he planted family's blade, Dawn, into the ground. A knight named the Sword of the Morning who fought with a blade named Dawn, quite fitting, Reed observed. However his observations did not put the knotting feeling in his stomach at bay. The two knights beside him eyed Reed and his allies, calculating their odds of victory. By the smug expression they adopted, he guessed they thought them quite high.
"I looked for you on the Trident," Ned replied, his voice hinting at no emotion.
"We weren't there," Dayne observed, smirking.
"Your friend, the usurper, would lie beneath the ground if we had been," Ser Oswell boasted. Reed guessed that he was eager for a fight, the Kingsguard were not the most renowned politicians in the Kingdoms; they were chosen for their skill with their sword, not their tongue.
"The Mad King is dead," Ned contraried, "Rhaegar lies beneath the ground." The knights looked nonplussed. "Why weren't you there to protect your prince?" Stark practically spat out that question, perhaps he thought their was no honour in leaving your prince to die on the battlefield. Howland chuckled to himself silently, Eddard Stark and his honour, it would get him killed one day, he thought.
"Our prince wanted us here," Dayne said as he casually handled his helmet. A long pause followed. Lyanna Stark was in that tower, Reed knew it, Stark knew it, the men at his back knew it, but the knights remained impassable with their words.
"Where is my sister?" Stark raged, for he too was not the most politically minded Lord either. Smiling, Ser Arthur Dayne cupped his helmet in both hands and smiled.
"I wish you good fortune in the wars to come," he said as he adorned his helm, his knights following suit. "And now it begins." Ser Oswell and Ser Gerold drew their blades, the sound steel on scabbard ringing out like chimes of death around the Red Arthur left Dawn where it stood in the ground and instead brought forth two swords from his scabbards and twirled them seamlessly in either hand, a minor display of his mastery of sword fighting. Reed had never before seen anyone handle two swords before, especially not as easily as the Sword of the Morning did now. He suddenly too did not like their odds.
"No," Lord Stark grunted in reply, "now it ends." He defiantly drew his own blade and Reed had no choice but to follow suit. As the other five men drew their own swords, Howland once again assessed their pooled skills with the blade. Martyn Cassel and Ser Mark Ryswell were both fairly well-renowned swordsmen and of course Eddard Stark was seasoned on the battlefield. He knew not of the other men's abilities, but he did know that they would not rival that of a Kingsguard. Reed did not want to cross swords with these knights, but he was loyal and forced himself to be brave. The knot in his stomach tightened and sweat leaked from his palms and brow. He had known what was about to happen, though that did not prepare him nearly enough for when the time actually arrived.
Though his arms feel heavy and his vision swayed, Howland raised his sword and ran towards the King's Guards, the carvings of dancing three-headed dragons seemed to squirm in anticipation of the battle to come. Perhaps bravery got the better of him, or maybe it was stupidity, but Howland found himself crossing swords with the Sword of the Morning. If ever he had been truly in over his head, it was then. Dayne's dual swords parried, blocked and deflected all of Reed's blows without effort, his blades spinning like fans in his hand. It had been but a few seconds before Ser Arthur glanced Reed's sword aside with one blade and opened a cut in his stomach with the other.
Howland fell to the floor clutching his gut. The wound was not too deep to be fatal, but his sword had scattered he knew not where. As he crawled across the ground on his stomach blindly fumbling at anything he could find, he heard a piercing scream from Ser Oswell Whent emanate from behind him before it was cut off by the sound of gurgling blood. Howland fought to turn himself and look, and he saw the bodies of Whent, Cassel, Ryswell and Dustin littered across the plains, pools of blood flowing like rivers across the dirt. No sooner had he cast his gaze upwards when he saw the sword of Ned Stark disappear into the throat of Ser Gerold Hightower and erupt again from the backside of his head. With a strangled cry Hightower fell to the floor and two of the best swords in Westeros had been stripped from the earth, painting the ground red as they left.
Dragging himself towards the body of Martyn, he spied a dagger still clutched in Cassel's hand, the blade clean of any blood. Reed forced the fingers open and crawled away with the dead man's weapon in hand. As he struggled to his feet he gazed in awe at the blur of Arthur Dayne's swords as he duelled Lord Stark and Theo Wull. The body of Ethan Glover lay nearby on the ground, his throat sliced open in one single swing. Clearly three to one had been too easy a challenge for the Sword of the Morning. Howland eventually found his feet and slowly stumbled across the hill, his pace no faster than that of an old cripple. He had lost a lot of blood; his vision swam and energy rapidly drained from his legs.
Their hopes of victory died with Theo as Dayne glanced Stark's attack with his left hand and plunged a blade hilt-deep into Wull's breast with his right. When the knight removed his sword and turned to Stark with both blades at the ready, Theo fell and died clutching his heart with an anguished cry, blood springing from his chest. Stark grimaced and grunted as he somehow fended off Dayne's lightning fast approaches with both swords twirling majestically. Unfortunately, Ned's efforts were not enough. Arthur Dayne disarmed the northern warrior with two swift strokes and suddenly Stark was defenceless. Dayne smirked smugly, thinking he had won, and approached him; blades still spinning in hand. Reed saw Ned's eyes dart towards Dawn, still plunged in the earth. Maybe he would have made a grab for it, but Howland's dagger found the back of Dayne's neck before anyone could find out.
Reed had been behind Ser Arthur as he closed in on Ned and could not have seen him coming; he probably assumed Howland was dead - he was wrong. That mistake had cost him his life. Dayne's glistening red blades slipped from his hands and he fell to the floor, an expression of confusion and despair painted on his countenance. Howland retrieved the dagger from his neck and a fresh spout of blood poured from his throat. The battle over, Reed staggered and crashed back to the soil, once again clutching at his wounded abdomen. He could not see Arthur and Ned, but the sound of Dawn being pulled from the ground and the swishing of a sword was all he needed to hear.
The Sword of the Morning had lived by Dawn, and Dawn had finally broken.