This came from a desire to write Arthur Dayne stories, as I feel he was dealt a poor hand in the HBO show and is neglected in the books, despite that he is one of the more interesting characters. These chapters will alternate serially, focusing on Arthur's life both before his canon death, and then after, with the "before" chapters leading up to this one and the "after" chapters following this one. The larger events of the world post Robert's Rebellion will be alluded to but will not be a focus. Anyway, enjoy.
The air was hot.
Arthur set helmet against his side and looked out across the waste. They could see dust, kicked up by approaching riders. Hidden, now, by the mountains. But they had spied them once, when the riders had crossed the last rise. Northmen. Far, far from home.
"I suppose this means Rhaegar bit it," Oswell Whent said dryly.
Arthur took a step towards him, but Gerold held up a hand, "None of that. We're better than that."
Whent turned his head aside and spat into the dirt. "How many do you think they are?"
Arthur looked to the sky. Some dornish knights could count riders by the size of their dust cloud. It was an utterly ridiculously if occasionally useful skill. But Arthur had been away from his country for too long and had never developed it. Still, it wasn't big enough to be more than a dozen. Wouldn't have been visible at all, if not for the clear sky.
"Not enough," he said softly, voice full of dark promise.
The tower sat alone, squarely in some forgotten section of the Red Mountains, outside the prince's pass. A crumbling ruin where no one would come looking for them, unless someone in the know had talked. Gerold and Whent were sweating beads in their armor. They had doffed their capes days ago, but Arthur had kept his. Oh, he was overheated himself. But the temperature of Dorne was more tolerable to him than his sworn brothers. And he believed a Kingsguard's cloak should only be removed to serve as his shroud.
"There they are," Whent said, and pointed.
The riders appeared over the nearest rise, which opened onto the Tower of Joy's plateau. Seven riders. And at their head a man they all recognized: Lord Eddard Stark.
"Do you think he's peeved the Prince fucked his sister?"
"Quiet, Ser Oswell," Gerold said tiredly. "I won't ask you again."
"She opened her legs for him, was he supposed to say no to a beauty like that?"
"I said quiet."
Whent chuckled but was quiet. Arthur would have words with him when this was finished.
Of the Northman, Arthur recognized few. Ethan Glover, he knew from his trial before King Aerys. Howland Reed, from that embarrassment at Harrenhal. But the others, excluding Eddard, were unknown to him. One was a knight of house Ryswell, judging by his tabard, one a northern clansman, and the remaining two likely lords of some northern holdfasts.
"He was afraid to bring his army into Dorne," Gerold said in a low voice.
"But still… only six men?" Whent asked.
"He didn't expect to find us here."
Arthur eased Dawn from his back and brought it to his shoulder. The milkwhite blade caught the sunlight as he pulled it free, then untied his sword belt and tossed it aside.
Gerold stood out in front of them, longsword held point down in the earth, his hands resting at its pommel. As though he were passing judgment.
"We looked for you at the trident!" Eddard called out. The seven were dismounting, taking weapons into their own hands. The knight and lords carried blades, but the clansman had an axe, Howland Reed a spear.
"We were not there," Gerold answered.
That same wry smile quirked across Whent's face, "Woe to the Usurper if we had been."
Eddard was striding towards them. Arthur's eyes fell onto Ice, where it swung at the Lord of Winterfell's belt. "When King's Landing fell, Ser Jaime slew your king with a golden sword, and I wondered where you were."
"Far away," Ser Gerold said, "or Aerys would yet sit the Iron Throne, and our false brother would burn in seven hells."
"I came down on Storm's End to lift the siege," Ned told them, placing a hand on his sword now, "and the Lords Tyrell and Redwyne dipped their banners, and all their knights bent the knee to pledge us fealty. I was certain you would be among them."
"Our knees do not bend easily," Arthur said.
"Ser Willem Darry is fled to Dragonstone, with your queen and Prince Viserys. I thought you might have sailed with him."
"Ser Willem is a good man and true," said Oswell.
"But not of the Kingsguard," said Gerold. "The Kingsguard does not flee."
"Then or now," said Arthur. He slid on his helm.
"We swore a vow." Gerold turned his sword over in his hands and Oswell drew his.
The rest of the northerners fanned out around them from behind Eddard, closing the three Kingsguard in. But neither Arthur, Gerold, nor Oswell moved.
"And now it begins," said Arthur, bringing Dawn down from shoulder, holding it out at his side. Light danced across the blade's edge.
"No," Eddard said, and Arthur sensed genuine regretfulness from him. "Now it ends."
The northerners at once rushed them and at once the Kingsguard drew back, closing ranks, swords raised. The clansman and knight came at Arthur, each to a side of him, attempting to overwhelm him. He swept Dawn at them in a wide stroke and both of them immediately leapt back, out of its reach. Beneath his helmet, Arthur smiled. His reputation had preceded him.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw the northerners fall on his brothers, three to Gerold, two to Oswell. They could hold their own, they–
The Ryswell knight rushed him, sword out, striking high. Arthur met him, blade for blade. The clansman was coming around his flank–Arthur locked his sword to Ryswell's and turned, used his superior strength to wretch the knight sideways. Ryswell yelped, stumbling over his own feet, the strength gone from behind his sword, the clansman drawing up short so that he wouldn't run into the back of his own friend.
And Arthur twisted the sword out of Ryswell's hands and drove Dawn through his throat, in the gap between plate and helm.
"Mark!" Someone screamed behind him. He tore Dawn from the knight, the limp body flying aside, and bored down on the clansman. The surprised northerner brought up the haft of his axe just in time to deflect a strike from Arthur, splinters flying. Arthur transitioned flawlessly into the next stroke, point hooking in the air. Dawn came back around, as though moving of its own will, and crunched into the clansman's shoulder.
The northerner bellowed in the purest agony, swinging one last futile strike at Arthur with his remaining strength. His off-hand left Dawn to catch the ax at its haft, arresting its movement. Disbelief filled the clansman eyes as Arthur overpowered him bit by bit, forced him to his knees, and then took his head off with a single stroke.
"Arthur! Turn!" Gerold's voice reached him.
He whirled around. Howland had peeled off from Gerold, who was trading blows with Eddard and Ethan Glover, giving up ground as they forced him backwards up the tower's steps, barely able to parry the strikes of both men.
The cragoman had the spear primed to throw and, with Arthur barely having a second to react, launched it at him. He had Dawn up barely in time, foot back, and deflected the spear across the flat of his blade. It ricocheted into the ground and stood there, quivering. Howland slowly lowered his arm in disbelief.
"Howland!" Eddard called for him–Gerold had gotten the better of Ethan, knocking the man's sword aside, and cut him through the throat, leaving Eddard to fend off the Lord Commander alone. Cursing, the cragoman drew his side sword and rushed to help his lord.
Arthur rushed to the tower's steps, sword at his shoulder. Gerold needed his help urgently, but where was Whent? He staggered to stop.
The bat-helmed knight was reeling into the tower's shadow as the two northern lords tore into him. He had lost his sword and was kept alive only by the strength of his armor and the fact that he was still on his feet.
Arthur charged towards them, taking Dawn into both hands, armor clanking as sprinted across the sand.
One of the lords turned, a momentary look of surprise crossing his face, before he shouted to his company.
"Martyn!"
The other lord–Martyn–glanced back, then turned to face Arthur as well. Arthur slowed as they raised their swords to meet him. The onslaught finished, Oswell finally collapsed. First to his knees, and then onto his side.
"You killed Mark Ryswell. And Theo Wull." There was a measure in disbelief in his voice.
Arthur came to a stop a short distance away. He leveled Dawn at the pair; "They were slow."
Both lords came at him simultaneously, the one called Martyn struck high, a thrust for Arthur's throat, the second for his knees.
Arthur turned into the thrust, caught it at his pauldron–it scrapped up, along the ear of his helm, then off–and slapped the nameless' lord's low strike into the dirt. Arthur stomped on his blade before he could fully arrest his movement and he faceplanted into the knight's plated knee, lips splitting open, shards of teeth flying.
Martyn was behind Arthur now and struck down on him, raining sword strikes against the back of his shoulders and helmet. Arthur tripped forward over the fallen northerner, who lay bleeding before him, and fell into a roll that brought him up onto his feet again.
Martyn hadn't given him space to breath, rushing Arthur now with a wide sweep that could have taken his head clean off. But the two of them were fighting alone now and Arthur easily parried the strike, knocking Martyn's sword upwards, and then opened his torso from the neck down with Dawn. Martyn froze, stared at Arthur uncomprehendingly, and then collapsed before him.
"No! You bastard!" The fallen northerner howled. Blood dripped from the recent gaps in his teeth, dribbling over his chin into the sand.
Arthur walked over to him and he scrambled back, desperately trying to escape the Sword of the Morning. Distantly, Arthur registered a feeling of disgust. Of what he was doing. Of what he reduced men to. There was nothing glorious or honorable about this. That the Gods should have made all of his opponents so unworthy that he should feel guilty for killing them was some kind of grand joke.
"Take up your sword, ser," Arthur instructed. "I do not want to kill an unarmed man."
It lay in sand just within the northerner's reach. He glanced at it, then back to Arthur. "Not a chance of that."
Arthur pressed the edge of Dawn to the man's neck, "I said I do not want to. Not that I won't."
The northerner took a shaky breath, squeezed his eyes shut, and then took hold of his sword. Arthur flicked Dawn across the man's throat, opening it in a spray of blood. He made a pathetic gurgling noise as he died, falling to the sand. Arthur grimaced, wiping Dawn clean on the man's leather jerkin. A shame. All of it a damn shame.
"Arthur…"
In all the excitement and adrenaline he'd almost forgotten about Oswell. He rushed to his sworn brother's side, dropping to a knee in the pool of blood that had begun to gather underneath the Whent. Arthur clasped Oswell's hand. There were no words of sympathy, no promises to be exchanged here. Both men had seen enough death to know that Oswell was finished.
"The heir…" Oswell's fading voice rang out from his helmet. "Protect the heir…"
"They won't leave here with him," Arthur promised. "I'll put all their bodies in the sand."
Oswell lifted his head. To speak, to smile, to give an affirming nod. Arthur did not know. The helmet concealed whatever expression he might've shown. Oswell dropped his head back down and he went still, breathing out one last exhale.
Arthur rose, the tail of his cloak soaked and dragging in the blood. He undid the clasps from his shoulders and let it fall.
On the stairs up to the Tower of Joy the bodies of Ethan Glover and Ser Gerold Hightower lay splayed out, dead. At the entrance into the Tower itself, Lord Eddard hacked at the big wooden doors with Ice as a woman and baby screamed within. Howland Reed stood back, shielding himself with an arm as splinters flew, grimacing.
"Stark!" Arthur shouted up to them. The Lord of Winterfell froze, greatsword raised above his head, and slowly turned.
Hanging from his neck, concealed by his breastplate, Arthur produced a key. He held up, for Eddard and Howland to both see, and then dropped it to the dirt at his feet.
Eddard traced his eyes over the dead bodies of his comrades. They had all fallen to Arthur's sword, excepting Glover. Arthur could see the hesitation in him. Beneath that, the fear.
"It is over, Ser Arthur," Eddard said, sounding tired. "Rhaegar is dead, Aerys is dead. Elia Martell, Prince Aegon, Princess Rhaenys," Arthur flinched when the children's names were mentioned, "they have all died."
"The Usurper murdered them, you mean," Arthur said coldly. "You murdered them."
Eddard stormed down the stairs towards him, knuckles white on Ice's grip. Howland grabbed his arm in an attempt to stop him, but Eddard yanked free, "I had no part in that! That was not what I wanted!"
"Did you not?" Arthur asked. "Did you not name him brother? Is he not to be your king?"
Eddard was incapable of concealing any of his emotions. The rage, the pain, the disgust. All was written across his face. "Your Prince raped my sister!"
"We will see the truth to that!" Arthur snarled, raising Dawn as Eddard closed the distance between them. "Here and now!"
The edges of their blades met in shower of sparks, metal screeching as each jockeyed to overpower the other. Arthur saw his reflection in Eddard's bascinet–blood splattered his plate and the visor of his helmet gave him a mean, predatory look.
Eddard brought Ice back and swung at Arthur in a flurry of hacking, wild strikes, powered purely by rage. Arthur parried each of them, flowing from one stroke into the next as he gradually gave ground, and Eddard's attacks became more and more frenzied.
He turned the last of these aside, and struck inside Eddard's guard, scoring a hit on the side of the lord's breastplate. Eddard staggered backwards, ducking underneath a strike meant for his neck, barely deflecting the follow-up that flew down on him. He reeled under Arthur's sudden relentlessness–the Kingsguard switched to a high guard, struck down twice. Eddard was only able to slap them aside because of the length of his sword, the first deflected by Ice's hilt, the second by point.
He backpedaled, trying to create space, and Arthur circled him, Dawn extended out at his side, inviting Eddard to attack. Eddard was slower than he was. Weaker. Shorter. Less skilled, less experienced. Wearing less armor. He was going to lose and they both knew it.
Eddard and Arthur circled each other. The Lord of Winterfell was searching for an opening; the Sword of the Morning was waiting for him to find one. So that Arthur could put an end to this. Eddard, and then Reed, and then it was his duty to take Lyanna away from here. Protect her, protect the heir, from the Stormlord's rage when he realized what had truly occurred.
Eddard lunged, using the length of Ice to force Arthur back. Arthur took a heavy step out of the way, heels skidding in the dirt. Eddard pressed his advantage, dropping Ice down in an attempt to catch Arthur's leg. He drew it back, Ice missing by a hair, planted his feet swung up. Eddard had Ice up just in time. The two swords clanged together. Arthur hooked his wrist so that Dawn came over top and then slashed across.
The edge struck Eddard directly in the face, cutting deep into his cheek. He cried out, staggering backwards, momentarily blinded by blood and pain. In that moment he was defenseless and Arthur could have killed him. Could have stuck Dawn through his eyes, mouth, throat. Could have cut him across the waist where that wolf-headed breastplate of his ended.
He did none of that. Eddard's sister was up in that tower. Was he supposed to cut her brother to pieces and then go comfort her? Rhaegar would not have approved of that.
Eddard staggered back, blinking hard, one hand pressed to his cheek. He seemed to come back to himself then and immediately threw himself at Arthur, roaring, Ice raised.
The blow that followed could have shattered any regular weapon, probably could have cut a horse in two. Arthur met it precisely on the edge of Dawn, let Ice run down the length of the blade, and then pushed it aside and punched Eddard Stark in the mouth in the same movement.
Arthur stabbed Dawn into the ground and advanced on Eddard. The Warden of the North was reeling and swung wildly at Arthur, who bobbed under Ice's blade and landed two more blows on Eddard. He was inside Eddard's guard now and rained down punches on the spots not covered by armor. Eddard dropped Ice and attempted to cover himself with his arms. Arthur pushed him away, stepped back, and then landed a powerful right cross on Eddad's jaw, cracking bone.
He dropped immediately, limp. Arthur bent over him, grabbing Stark by the throat.
"Take back what you said about Rhaegar."
Eddard met his eyes but did not seem entirely coherent. Blood ran from the wound on his cheek, from his squashed nose, his burst lips.
"Take it back and I will spare you. Your sister has already lost one brother. She does not need to lose a second. Take it back and–"
Something punched him in the lower back and what followed was unimaginable agony. Something sharp and hard and wrong, and from it fingers of fire radiated up his side. From the sole part of his torso that, while bent over as he was, wasn't covered.
Eddard slipped from his fingers and, on his knees, Arthur looked back at what had struck him, dazed.
Back by the northerner horses, standing alone with a bow half drawn, was Howland Reed. The cragomen was calmly notching another arrow.
Arthur surged to his feet, dashing for Dawn. Howland let lose again and this arrow pinged off the side of Arthur's helmet, disorienting him and forcing him to fall, but causing no injury. He pushed himself up, his hand finding Dawn's grip. He drew his sword out of the earth and spun towards Reed.
Howland had a third arrow drawn and let it lose.
It thudded into the gap between his thigh and groin. The pain was just as excruciating as it had been the first time around. He could feel the arrow head quivering in his flesh, could feel the wooden shaft grinding his insides.
Arthur almost lost his feet, but willed himself upright, to continue toward Howland. He stumbled into a jog that became a sprint. Thirty feet between them. Twenty. Ten.
Howland squared up to him, drew back another arrow, and released. It punctured his armor at the waist, just above the hip, where the steel was thinnest. He collapsed forwards, would've fallen had he not used Dawn to catch himself
He staggered towards Howland. Eight feet. Seven. So close that he and Howland were looking each other in the eyes now. The cragoman calmly reached into his quiver, withdrew a final arrow, and fired it point blank into Arthur's visor.
It was as though the ground were wretched out from under him. His head snapped back and he was in the dirt, looking up at the sky, without even realizing he'd fallen.
Howland appeared in his line of sight. Arthur wanted to say something. Croak out a final word before he was finished, but found he was unable to move his mouth. Howland looked down at him a moment and then moved on.
Arthur stared up at the Dornish sky. Lyanna's screams had ceased now. As had the babe's. He squeezed his eyes shut. He had failed Rhaegar. Failed Gerold, failed Lewyn.
And Jaime… a betrayal that was so deep it burned. He was the one who had put the cloak around Jaime's shoulder. He may as well have killed the King himself.
He had failed everyone he loved.
The pain was extreme now, paralyzing even. The arrow at his groin hurt most of all–it had probably hit his hamstring–the horrible sensation radiating up and down his leg. Beyond anything he had felt before. Like someone had set fire to his muscles. His thoughts came slower.
Where was his brother now? His sisters? He hoped they were happy. He prayed to the Seven, that they lived good lives. Long lives.
On the edge of the pain was darkness. Good. Finally. Let it take him. Let him be rent from this unforgiving world with all its miseries. Let him go to the seven heavens. Let him be with them in death.
The fatigue hit him in a wave and his eyes fell closed.
—-
When he opened them again everything was dark and something heavy was pressing down on him. He shifted and what was around him shifted too, grinding against his plate.
A chill ran through him. Eddard and Howland had buried him alive. He wanted to laugh but still couldn't move his mouth–even the smallest attempt sent shivers of pain throughout his face, traveled down his neck. It was one way to get rid of a man you couldn't kill.
But no. Howland had had him. Arthur had lain on his back, defenseless, immobile, and Howland had simply walked by him. He could've finished the job. But hadn't. Why?
He flapped his tongue around his mouth, attempting to determine just what was keeping him from speaking. He tasted blood, dirt, and… wood. His tongue hit something rough. The wood of an arrow shaft. There was an arrow through his head.
Of course Stark and Reed had buried him. They thought he was dead. Who had an arrow sticking out of their helmet and lived?
He tried to move again and whatever they'd buried him under was loose, because it shifted with him. Stones, he waged. That'd built a little cairn for him.
Slowly, he forced one of his arms up, working it between the gaps in the stones. He could feel them spilling off of him, but it was exhausting. His strength was spent by his wounds. Reed's arrows still feathered him. He could feel the shafts caught in the stone, the heads nestled in his flesh.
He wasn't dying, not yet anyway, but bleeding, buried alive, isolated in the Red Mountains.
There was a part of him that considered just letting go. He could die here–he already had a grave. What did he really have left to live for? Rhaegar, someone who had been more a brother to him than his actual brother had ever been, was dead. All the rest of Aerys' Kingsguard too, by all accounts.
The entirety of his life's work had amounted to nothing. Had been thoroughly crushed before his eyes. Was that a life really worth returning to? Worth all the struggle and suffering and pain it would take just to get out of this hole in the ground, to mention the countless days of desperation that would follow. Untold agony and… for what exactly? The sheer act of survival?
But the answer was his in a second. It was not in him to give up. It was not in him to lie down and die. The Sword of the Morning did not lie in his grave and wait for death to take him.
His enemies had butchered his body, killed his allies, and left him for dead. His sheer survival was enough to prove them wrong, to prove the unworthiness of their cause.
The Sword of the Morning was defiant. He did not lie down and accept defeat. He rose after every fall, would fight until he could no longer lift a sword. That one would have to hack his limbs off to render him vanquished.
Arthur thrust one hand out from his grave, grasping at the air. Stones tumbled aside and he began to push his cairn apart, forcing his way free.
He would not insult Rhaegar's memory, Ser Gerold's memory, by lying in a grave and accepting death, quivering at the thought of further pain. He would not disrespect all those who had died so that he could live. Let the whole world believe him dead, a corpse rotting in the ground. It would never change the fact that Arthur Dayne yet lived.