IV. Lightning-Struck Tower

Jon was glad to leave the dusty mountain trails behind, and gladder still to lay eyes upon the high dark walls of Blackhaven, crowned with amethyst lightning. The banners glittered like stars under the mid-morning sun.

"At last!" Allyria exclaimed, wheeling her horse around gleefully. The rest of the party paused for a moment in wearied relief. They stood upon a hillock from which the land all around for miles and miles were visible.

It was all so flat! To the south mountains rose up, scorched red, but in every other direction the ground seemed to roll away straight to the horizon and beyond. Green meadows and endless fields garbed in gold and lime stretched on forever. Where were the mountains? Had the Seven taken a hammer and pounded them all flat to low hills?

His uncle rode up nearby, reaching out to slap Jon's back. "You're a mountain boy, huh. Took me a bit to get used to it, too."

"Right." Jon muttered. "How much further do we have to go?"

Arthur sat up straight, measuring the distance. "All day. We'll be there in good time, a little after noon."

Blackhaven was in full festivity. Even hours out from the gates of the castle the festivities reached them. Smallfolk were camped in nooks and crannies by the road, in shaded corners of meadows or clearings in the woods, all journeying from far afield to watch the betrothal of their lord to the sister of the Sword of the Morning. In every little camp a minstrel or maiden sang gaily.

Their convoy was nearly three hundred strong by now. Just a few paces behind Jon the Prince of Dorne and his company rode, chattering amongst themselves. As Jon fell back within them, they were talking about the supposed tourney and who might be there.

"I'm going to gut that Swann bastard if he shows his face here-" Gerris was saying. Jon didn't quite like Drinkwater, but if Quentyn and Archibald were friends and that was reason enough to tolerate him.

"What'd he do?" Jon asked, leaning over to Quentyn.

He chuckled, "Gerris was making moon eyes at Larra Buckler at a small tourney a few months back or so. Just before he went to talk to her, Swann's horse splattered his breeches with mud and he didn't even notice."

Jon winced. Quentyn grinned, "It didn't end there. Later that day Swann unhorsed him in the finals and took the crown straight to Larra Buckler."

Jon winced harder.

"I doubt you'll get a chance at him this time," Cletus said, "This is the biggest tourney in years. I'm seeing banners from the other end of the Reach."

Rightly so. In the distance, towards the east, near the open field where the tourney grounds had been set up, Jon could see familiar banners of the houses of the Reach. There was the white sun of Ashford, the red apple of Fossoway, the grey shield of Grimm, the black towers of Peake and tallest of them all the golden flower of Tyrell. But it wasn't only Reacher lords in attendance. On the west side of the castle atop a hillock the banners of Stormlanders fluttered — the bronze shield of Buckler, the griffin of Connington, the quill of Penrose, the crow of Morrigen, the whorl of Wilde, and many more. Nearly all the pageantry of three of the seven Kingdoms were here.

"Look at how far apart the two camps are. That's a smart move — still got a lot of bad blood left over from the rebellion." Quentyn muttered.

"Oh," Jon replied simply. "I didn't think of that. My mother and uncle don't like talking about it."

"Of course they wouldn't. They were so close to the center of everything. Honestly, to date it's a mystery why Baratheon didn't brand them as traitors and hunt them down."

"Actually, you can probably thank Stark for that." That was Cletus interjecting again.

He's heard that name before. "Stark...? Like, House Stark in the North?"

"The very same. Word is, Ned Stark, Baratheon's best friend, was sweet on your mother."

Blinking, Jon ventured, "Do I… want to hear this? "

Quentyn laughed. "No salacious details, I promise. If things had gone any other way, he might even be your father, and you might have grown up in Winterfell rather than Starfall."

"But they didn't get married because of the war." Jon said. What would it have been like to grow up with a father? Jon wondered. Arthur was a wonderful surrogate and everything he could have asked for in a father, but there was still something missing.

Shrugging, Quentyn responded. "There's always a possibility. You're old enough, Jon. Once all this is over and you're back home, you need to find your answers."

Jon nodded gravely, but said nothing.

True to Arthur's word, their party arrived at Blackhaven some hours later. From up closer, the castle was as grand as any of the half-dozen Jon had passed through since leaving Starfall. By now, Jon was used to the usual routine of resting and dining at the castle they would be staying at. The feast that night was grander than all he had partaken in so far, however. It was a feast to welcome a new bride, after all. Yet the wedding feast itself promised to be even bigger.

He hardly ever saw his mother and aunt over the next few days. The castle seemed packed to the brim. Everywhere he turned, it seemed like he would bump into someone - quite literally. He was scolded and shouted at all day by minor nobility and handmaids and squires and scullions.

After a full day inside the pandemonium of the castle, Jon begged Arthur to be allowed outside, promising to stay with his friends and out of trouble. Despite his reservations in letting Jon loose amidst so many visiting lords and knights, Arthur finally acquiesced.

Quentyn had been offered accommodations just as grand as the bridal party, as the son of a lord paramount. But the crowded castle rankled the Prince just as much. The two of them joined Cletus and Gerris, running around and wreaking minor havoc amidst the assembled pageantry.

They even found Gerris' nemesis — the Swann knight — and slathered honey all over his boots. Before the day was out it would be swarming with ants.

The wedding was set for three days hence, and the tourney would be the day after tomorrow. Both the Yronwoods and Drinkwater had all put their names on the lists for the Joust, but only Archibald would be participating in the melee.

There would be a squires' melee too, which Quentyn had signed up for. Jon had glanced at his friend with mild bitterness, but recanted when he saw the other squires, all with years and heads over him, signing up as well.

Still, Jon wondered.

Would he ever get to squire for anyone?

When he was younger he had always assumed he would squire for his Uncle, squire for the Sword of the Morning. But now, only a few years away from being of squiring age, he knew Arthur Dayne, for all his brilliance, love, and chivalry, no longer had the body of a knight able to train a squire.

He still hadn't bought it up, however. There were so many things Jon wondered, and never bought it up.

Quentyn was right. He would soon have to find his answers soon.

As the sky darkened, Jon bid his friends farewell for the night and headed back to his rooms in Blackhaven. He saw his uncle near the garrison, talking to their household men. The castle was as bustling as ever, and Jon almost managed to deftly weave all the serving people and men-at-arms all the way to his rooms.

Almost. Right near where the Daynes had been chambered. Jon ran headfirst into a group of tall armoured men.

They had been deep in conversation with each other as they turned the corner. Jon had no chance to react, hitting the man heavily and crashing to the floor.

The lead knight wore no heraldry, simply dark leathers and a hood. Jon only figured he was a knight from his bearing and the short sword at hip. That was strange enough - that someone would be wielding their sword openly inside the castle. But the other two were in tunics and heraldry. He only recognized the black towers on the chest of the Peake man.

"Watch where the hell you're going, boy!" The man barked out, grabbing Jon's arm and hoisting him up roughly.

When Jon glanced up to scowl right back, one of the men in the rear saw his face. His eyes shot wide open and he hissed something into the ears of the man in lead. He focused.

"-that's him!"

The grip on his arm loosened. "-wait, you're Jon, aren't you? Ashara's son?"

"I am, ser." Jon answered, pulling himself out of the grip and rubbing his sore arm.

The man knelt down, his face much softer now. "So, you have her look." After a moment, he hastily added, "Your mother's."

"W-Who are you?"

He smiled. "Just an old friend of your parents. I'm looking for your uncle - Arthur. Is he around anywhere?"

My parents? Jon froze in shock at the thought. Did he mean his Uncle and Mother? Or did this man know his Father as well? He could only numbly nod at the question. When he realized the man in front was looking for a proper answer, he stuttered out.

"Y-yeah. My uncle's near the garrison, ser."

The man clapped him on the shoulder. "There's a good lad. My best wishes to your aunt on her marriage."

Before Jon could ask a question, all three men had swept past him.

"Wait!" He finally called out as they turned the corner. His voice was lost in the din.

Jon ran after the group. Leaning over the banisters, he saw them walking down the stairs. Before Jon could pursue, a group of servants shoved their way in front of him, carrying a huge wooden bench and slowly carting it down the stairs. No chance of catching up that way.

He ran. There was another set of stairs on the other side of the tower. He sprinted down those stairs, which were mercifully unblocked, and headed straight for where he had last seen his uncle.

There were too many people on the lower floor for him to run. Some maid or scullion would doubtlessly grab him and scold him for running around. He slowed to a brisk walk, desperately hoping he would catch the men.

He did. He caught up to the men by a balcony. They hadn't noticed him come up behind. He instantly slid behind the heavy curtains that were hung by the balcony in cases of cold weather and listened with every ounce of hearing he could squeeze out.

"-the hell… -risky."

"-had to-" The words were echoing, far and indistinct as they passed through stone.

Jon sidled in closer to the balcony entrance, still under the curtains, trying to make out the conversation.

"-on my honour. Jon is Ashara's son. Not his." That was Arthur's voice.

"You've held this secret for a decade, Dayne. How much longer will you keep this farce running?" It was the man he'd run into earlier.

"You weren't at the Tower, Lonmouth. You have no idea what happened."

"Then tell me, goddammit!" Jon shrank back at the raised voices. Was it going to turn violent? Should he run and get help for his uncle? There was a moment's silence.

Finally, the other man, Lonmouth, spoke again. "You would let the Usurper bleed the realm dry? When his son is right here? When we could have a king worth-"

Arthur's voice cut in, cold as steel. "Jon is not his son. No prince. On my honour - he's Ashara's son and nothing more. He was born after I returned to Starfall. The girl died in childbirth and the prince was stillborn."

Another pause. A third man said, "It's easy to swap babes. Whether he's a true Targaryen or a Blackfyre, we would raise our swords for him. Half the realm would. I don't believe you, Dayne - you're just sheltering him."

"He's only ten namedays!"

"One day, Arthur. He will be old enough one day." Lonmouth said quietly.

"Would they believe you, Richard? The word of a wandering knight against mine and Stark's?"

Stark! There was that name again. The pieces came together. His uncle was talking about the Tower of Joy. Of Eddard and Lyanna Stark, and the dead son of Rhaegar Targaryen.

"Men will believe what they wish to. He has purple eyes-"

"-Ashara's eyes!"

"-his eyes."

There was a few moment's silence once again. The next person to speak was his uncle. Arthur sounded older and more tired than he'd ever heard him. "Go to Essos. Your dragons are there. Just… leave my nephew out of it. Leave Jon out of your games."

The last pieces fell in place.

They thought he was the son of Rhaegar Targaryen?

Jon stood behind the curtains, frozen. Footsteps and shadows played on the ground beside him, slowly fading away. The three men were gone. Another few minutes passed, and his Uncle walked past him. Still, Jon stood frozen.

There was no way it could be true.

No way, right?

The pieces fell together so neatly, yet so wrongly. All the right ideas, yet a final conclusion that couldn't be any more wrong! Ashara was his mother, and… someone was his father! Someone who was not Rhaegar Targaryen.

He- He had simply been born at the right place and the right time. That's why all the Targaryen loyalists were so suspicious of him. That's all it was. Uncle Arthur wouldn't lie to him. He'd inherited his mother's eyes, and his father's features! Jon had seen portraits of Rhaegar Targaryen, and the man looked nothing like him.

But when Jon headed to bed that night, no sleep came.

Only confused thoughts dancing between different truths.


The Tourney of Blackhaven would be talked about for years. Perhaps not as vaunted as Ashford, not as accursed as Harrenhal. The flower of three Kingdoms had appeared to celebrate the wedding of the sister to one of the greatest swordsmen in the history of Westeros.

A bright morning sun beat down upon the competitors. They paraded out in their handsome horses, garbed in shining armour polished so brightly Jon had to squint at times. He stood in the stands with his family, atop a platform of honour where his family, the bride-to-be and Lord Beric Dondarrion sat. Allyria's to-be-husband was a dashing young man with an easy smile.

He didn't ruffle Jon's hair like most of the other suitors had, and that one move had increased Jon's estimation of him tremendously.

Beric would not be riding in the lists. Jon wasn't sure how willing the man, a tourney knight by all means, had been about it. But the last time the two of them had raised voices at each other, Allyria had won.

The jousts opened with a match worthy of song. The Knight of Flowers, Garlan Tyrell, rode down the Knight of Crows, Guyard Morrigen in a dizzying exchange that left eight lances shattered on the ground. But on the last stroke Morrigen's horse swerved just a heartbeat too early and his rider hit the dirt seconds later.

The next two jousts matched hedge knights against each other and were over on the first tilt. But then a giant took the field, and Jon leapt up in the stands to cheer his friend on.

Archibald Yronwood's first tilt almost went awry. The Knight of Apples drove his lance into Archibald's chest and received one in his shoulder. But the bigger man held on and his horse rode on. On the second tilt, Archibald used his greater reach to smash his lance into the Fossoway's breast and rode away clean.

More tilts followed than Jon could keep track of. Archibald's cousin, Cletus, also advanced to the next stage, unhorsing a hedge knight on his first tilt. The Bronze Shield fell to the Grey Shield. The Green Lion topped the Black Towers. The Fox took the Owl by surprise, and the Blue Vulture pecked at the downed Griffin. The Quill, the Moth, the Swan, the Deer, and nearly a score of others continued onto the second round.

All of Jon's friends made it though. Gerris got his wish in the second round, unhorsing the Swan after five brutal tilts. Cletus and Archibald faced each other, two mountains among men, and were evenly matched for three tilts. On the fourth, Cletus' lance found its mark faster and Archibald fell.

At the end of the day Ser Garlan Tyrell rode down every man on the field and claimed the crown. But he would not put it on anyone's head - his wife, the Lady Leonette, was not in attendance. Instead, he surrendered the crown in honour of his host's marriage, and Beric gladly placed it on Allyria's head.

With the noonday sun at its height the melee commenced. Here the Yronwood cousins performed even better, teaming up in the midst of the free-for-all to crush every combatant.

Almost.

The ultimate prize went to a mystery knight. A tall man covered in black armour from head to toe. He split up the cousins and waited until Archibald was distracted by two other fighters. Then took Cletus apart with lightning strokes. Jon noticed his uncle lean forward with narrowed eyes to observe the man. The man would not take off his helm, and eventually Beric relented and allowed him to collect his prize.

By the late afternoon the squires took the field, Quentyn among them. There were three dozen in all. Jon cheered louder than he had all day for his friend. Quentyn was armoured in a padded outfit, with hard boiled leather to protect his vulnerable sections. But all his joints were exposed.

Jon had seen Quentyn practice on the road. He had even joined their spars, though it was difficult for them to practice together. For Jon had too little experience with Quentyn's weapon to spar safely, and the older boy had already moved onto using steel.

A small murmur went up in the crowd as Quentyn walked out onto the field, his burnt orange tabard bolding displaying the sun-and-spear of his house. In his left hand he had a buckler, and in his right a short spear.

Of course there would be murmurs, Jon realized. Even at his tender age he knew what kind of reputation Quentyn's uncle had.

But Quentyn paid no heed. The instant the melee began he rushed forward, ducking low. A Peake squire swung wide for the prince and found nothing by empty air. Quentyn's arm flickered out, stabbing straight into the squire's shoulder. The speartip was blunted, but the blow was hard enough that his opponent reeled back and dropped his sword.

Beside him, Arthur mused, "He's good. Most of these squires aren't used to spears."

Quentyn moved before the other squire had even hit the ground. Twisting left, he brushed past a swing and checked another squire with his shoulder. The boy clutched at Quentyn's armour, pulling him down as he fell. Quentyn hit the ground and rolled hard, kicking out at the squire's face.

Two hard kicks and the squire released him to cover his face. Quentyn grabbed the spear and levelled it to his neck.

"I yield!" The squire called out.

Quentyn accepted the surrender with a nod.

Jon's eyes began to rove across the field. The number of squires on the field had been cut down to less than ten. Quentyn had engaged another boy — a tall, armoured bulky Stormlander squire who wielded a mace. The mace would be Despite the disadvantage in size, Quentyn made up for it in speed and agility. His spear moved like a striking snake, battering the heavily armoured boy's arms every time he took a swing.

Then Jon saw the other squire approaching Quentyn from the back.

"Behind you!" He cried out.

Quentyn hesitated. The mace swung too close and Quentyn only just kept his footing as he leaned back to dodge it. Before either of them could move, the third squire leapt upon them. The three boys crashed into the ground in a tangle of bodies. Jon was too far to make out the scuffle, but after a few seconds the Stormlander squire stood up, breathing heavily but victorious.

The prince rolled on the ground, as Jon watched with concern. After a few moments, Quentyn slowly got up, moving gingerly towards the edge of the melee grounds.

Jon whirled around towards his uncle with a pleading expression. Arthur gave him a nod, and Jon tore out of the stands towards the field.

As he approached, Quentyn grinned weakly. "Thanks for the callout, Jon." Half of Quentyn's face was just one red bruise.

"I- I didn't distract you?" The surprise was evident on Jon's face.

"Nah." Quentyn shook his head, then winced, "I was completely tunnel visioned. Didn't see the other squire at all. But, seven hells, that meathead hits hard." Jon followed his scowl towards the Stormlander, who was now pounding on another hapless Reacher squire.

"Still! You were amazing with that spear!"

Quentyn chucked. "Come to Sunspear sometimes — I'll ask Uncle Oberyn to put on a show."


The Blackhaven Sept was bigger than Starfall's. The ceiling was vaulted high, with stained glass showering the crowd in seven hues. The time had been chosen fortuitously. The sun was at the right angle that it passed through a mosaic of the Father, illuminating the pathway in the middle of the chapel in all the hues of the rainbow.

Down that path came Allyria Dayne. On her shoulder was a radiant mantle of bright purple velvet, emblazoned with thousands of stars that seemed to glitter in the trail of the white comet. Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, escorted her in one arm. Her smile lit up the Sept, and not one man in that room would deny that her star shone even brighter than Ashara Dayne's.

She passed Edric and Jon and Ashara, giving them radiant smiles. Ashara stepped forwards and took her hands, whispered a few words in her ears. She kissed Allyria on the forehead and stepped back, taking Jon and Edric's hands in hers.

Then Allyria joined Beric Dondarrion at the altar. The groom himself was dressed in a fine dark doublet, with a handsome smile and hair that shone like fire. A thick cloak was in his hands.

With tender hands, Arthur unclasped the starry cloak Ashara wore and stepped back. Beric stepped forward with his lightning-blazoned cloak and wrapped it around her. The two embraced tightly, faces touching-

"With this kiss, I pledge my love."

-The kiss ended and they broke apart.

The Sept glittered in the sunlight. Vows were exchanged, and finally the septon spoke:

"Then, in the light of the seven, you are one flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever."

Ashara burst into sobs, as the room exploded with joy.


Originally I wanted to end the chapter with Quentyn's defeat in the melee, but it turns out if you write ten thousand words leading up to a particular event, you might as well write that event too. Also, I'm surprised I lasted almost 15k words before a proper fight scene. Not super happy with it, though - some of the phrasing is a little clumsy. Still...

Last chapter, I mentioned I've plotted out the whole story. Since FFNet, unlike SV or AO3, has a pretty harsh limit on the summary, I'll mention what I mentioned there - This is a Jon-in-Essos story, though that's a good ways off. I'm reckoning about 1/3 of the story'll be set in Westeros, and 2/3 in Essos.

In the next Chapter, Jon gets some long-awaited answers and begins the next step of his journey.