We return to the 'present' for Chapter 3.

The sun had risen by the time Arthur Dayne rose from his grave. He must've looked like a corpse too. Dried blood caked his armor where it had run down from his arrow wounds.

And there was an arrow sticking out of his face. It was rare that one lived after being impaled through the head. The pain there had lessened to a dull throb, but he would almost certainly need surgery.

It also meant the helmet was affixed to his head. He couldn't remove his helmet without removing the arrow and he probably couldn't remove the arrow without passing out. And passing out in the desert would be a death sentence.

And, to lay a further issue atop his mounting tribulations, it was at this moment Arthur realized he was missing something terrible and irrevocably important.

Dawn. He was missing Dawn. His sword had not been lain with him in the cairn and, standing here above the graves of his sworn brothers and Eddard's fallen companions, he could see it was not here either.

Each grave was marked, with the weapons of those dead stuck into the stones. Arthur knew which graves belonged to Gerold and Oswell by the cloaks that had been affixed to their swords.

But sticking from his grave had been Howland Reed's spear, which Arthur's cape had been stuck through the point off. He reached out to pluck it off and wrap it back around his shoulders, but then thought better of it. It would be a poor time to be identified. His expensive silver-lacquered armor, which he wouldn't be able to remove until a maester saw to him, was already a dead give away that he was someone.

He scanned the area immediately around the tower for his sword. It seemed so empty, now. This had been his home for almost a year and during that time it had settled into a kind of comfortable lull. At first, it had been himself, Oswell, Rhaegar, Lyanna, and her handmaiden. And there had been a quaintness to it. A peace he had missed for so long, that he hadn't known he was missing.

Some nights, he and Rhaegar would build a fire on the plateau and share drinks under the bright and quiet Dornish night sky. Arthur would tell Rhaegar stories from his childhood at Starfall. His rivalry with Ulrick, the quiet strength of his father, his bond with Ashara. And although sometimes he would share a story in return, Rhaegar had preferred to listen. Arthur believed that the Prince had considered it as a form of escapism. A way of accessing a world which he would never know.

Oswell never joined them at those fires. Maybe he had sensed his presence would've changed the context. Would've caused Rhaegar to act as the ever-confident Prince of Dragonstone, rather than the thoughtful, bookish young man Arthur knew him to be.

That had changed with Gerold's arrival. Rhaegar had left, Dorne had entered the war, and the Tower had taken on an ever more tense atmosphere. Lyanna had never felt safe around the likes of Oswell, and Gerold was a stranger to her, so it had been Arthur who had acted as her sole protector. He never came to understand why Rhaegar ignored Elia in favor of that girl, citations of 'prophecy' aside, but she had never been bad company.

And now that was all finished. The memories were soiled by their futility. That Rhaegar would never amount to anything. That his dreams might as well have been less than ash in the wind. It had been Arthur's life's work to see the Prince's ambitions fulfilled. To see him grow into a man and a king. And now that had amounted to nothing either.

The loss of Lyanna and the heir to Stark still stung fresh. The deaths of Gerold and Oswell likewise. A who slew of losses, embarrassments, and defeats. And yet fate had seen fit to leave Arthur alive.

He limped around the plateau, searching for Dawn, but had no luck. Eddard or Howland had taken it as a trophy, in all likelihood. Stolen his sword but left the bodies of his sworn brothers and their comrades. Shameful.

Arthur took a sword instead from one of the northerner's cairns. It didn't fit right in his sheath, but it felt good to have a weapon, if he was skeptical about how skilled he would actually be with it. It had been nearly twenty years since he'd fought with a sword other than Dawn. He'd grown so used to his greatsword's length, its weight, its capabilities, that he probably took many things instinctively for granted. That would be dangerous in a fight.

It made him brave, however, and he finally turned his attention to the Tower of Joy. It was eerily quiet now. He climbed the stairs to it, up the plateau's incline. The tower's door hung open at an angle, bearing the marks from Eddard's aborted attempt to cut it down. A whole section of the tower itself was missing, where Howland and Eddard had probably built their cairns from. In fact, they had probably left not too long before Arthur had first regained consciousness.

There were remains of the little campsite they'd made inside, he, Oswell, and Gerold. When Gerold had arrived, with fresh orders from the King, Rhaegar had explained the situation to him and they had changed places. Rhaegar had gone off to the capital, later to the Trident, and Gerold had remained here.

Arthur rifled through what remained of the Kingsguard belongings, but didn't find much of interest. It was also hard to see what he was doing–the arrow stuck through his visor at an angle, slightly obscuring his vision. He ended up gathering all the rations they had–dried meat, bread, and cheese–into a single bag that he threw over his shoulder. He then climbed the stairs to the upper chamber.

The door hung open here as well. The first thing that drew Arthur's eyes was the blood on the bed sheets. Far too much of it.

He went over to where Rhaegar's harp leaned in the corner and rang his fingers along the strings. The noise was discordant and solemn in the empty room. Arthur tucked the harp under his arm and took one last look. Would Rhaegar and Lyanna have hidden here forever, if they could? Secreted away from the whole world?

A pointless, idle fantasy. The whole place smelled of death and he left quickly.

He looked back once at the tower, standing at the edge of the plateau, near where Eddard Stark had arrived not too long ago. Such an unremarkable place, he could never have guessed what had happened here, had he not already known. It was just as well. Arthur was sick to his stomach knowing that all that death had been for truly nothing. If places could speak, the tragedy here was so poignant one may have thrown themselves from the cliff in grief.

Good riddance. He descended the plateau without another glance.

—-

Four hours into his journey southwest, towards Starfall, Arthur finally spied a village built on the slopes between two mountainous rises. It was one of the greatest reliefs of his life. Unable to raise his visor, he had not eaten or drunk anything since yesterday morning and walking around the desert in full plate, bleeding, had drained him of any strength left. Sheer willpower kept him on his feet.

He stumbled towards the village, likely one of those that fed into Skyreach. It was a tight collection of hovels, with fields extending towards the oasis village had cropped up around. Such was the way in Dorne, where water could often be as valuable as gold. If a place had fresh water, it was worth settling, no matter the remoteness.

Heat rose off the ground in waves. His tongue hung like sandpaper in his mouth. He'd had several hallucinations on his walk between the mountains, largely auditory (hallucinating people he knew shouting his name) but also an incredibly convincing one of his father, scolding him for not waiting until night to cross the desert.

The injuries in his groin and hip burned. They were, luckily, both on his left side, so he was able to simply drag that leg behind himself as he progressed.

He could smell the oasis. Arthur didn't know if it was possible to smell cold, but he positively feel the coolness of that water on his tongue. He wanted to dunk his whole head in and drink, arrow be damned.

However, the villagers had seen him coming and before he was close enough to even act on the impulse, a group of men came out to greet him. They wore loose trousers, or tunics, or almost nothing at all. One of them was carrying a massive hammer, the kind of which was used to drive iron stakes into the ground.

Arthur came to a stop when he was ten feet from them and lowered himself down to his knees, exhausted.

"Who are you?" The man with the hammer asked him.

Arthur swallowed but was unable to force himself to speak. The arrow had thoroughly muted him. He could only shake his head and tap the front of his helmet.

"What are you doing out here?" He asked.

They had thick accents, nearly that of a Greenblood orphan. The kind which one only found on the most rural of Dornish. Arthur again shook his head, motioned back and forth across his neck.

"He looks near death," another said. "Do we take him to the sister?"

"Look at that armor. He is no Dornishman. Perhaps he is a survivor from a failed attack into the Prince's Pass. We should kill him."

"No," said the first, the man with the hammer. "We will take him to the sister."

It was at this moment that Arthur's strength failed him. He toppled forwards, onto his hands, Rhaegar's harp failing from under his arm and sliding away. He attempted to grab for it, gurgling out a nonsense cry of desperation, before collapsing.

—

When he awoke, he was somewhere dark and cool and for a second thought it had all been some perverse hallucination, that he had never escaped the grave, that he was there now, dying.

He shot up, gasping as it set aflame the wound in his side: "Damnit!" And that brought him pain too, spasms and agonies that wormed through his face and jaw. He collapsed back down, groaning.

Arthur lay on a slab, like that which a body would be prepared on for burial, yet he was not dead. Movement at his side alerted him to someone's presence and he grabbed them with the reflexes only a swordsman of his caliber could boast.

"Who are you?" He demanded, knotting their robe in his fist. The room was so dark, the light provided by a single candle that burned in the corner, he could scarcely see his hand in front of his face. "Where am I?"

The robed figure said nothing, only tried to pull away from him.

"The harp!" He hissed, yanking them closer. "Where is the harp?"

"Enough, ser."

Arthur swung his head around. Standing in the doorway to his left, having appeared down a flight of stairs that were not visible in the previous dark, stood a man holding a lantern. "The silent sisters do not speak."

Arthur reappraised the person he had in his grip. In the lantern's light, he could see they were a slight woman, robed toes to neck, head and face wrapped in an enveloping shawl. She was regarding him with obvious fear. Arthur released her immediately.

"Apologies," he said, taking a deep breath, mastering himself. "I… I was not myself. Forgive me."

The sister did nothing but back out of his reach.

"Where am I?" Arthur asked the new arrival. The man stepped down into the chamber. He dragged a chair over to the slab Arthur lay upon. Grimacing, Arthur swung his legs off the side of the slab, and sat up.

"You have a remarkable constitution," the man told him, sitting down. "A lesser man would be dead."

"A better man would be too," Arthur said cryptically. "Where am I?"

"The undercroft of our sept," the man said, setting the lantern down on the slab next to Arthur. It lit the face, revealing an older man with a curly, graying beard. "Of which I am the septon."

"And I am in Fowler lands?" Arthur assumed.

"Indeed."

Arthur nodded. That was good. Fowlers were loyal foremost to the Prince. Doran and Arthur were known to one another and he would be safe in any place were the Lord of Sunspear held sway. Relatively safe.

"I have questions of my own, for you," the septon said.

Arthur nodded, "As is to be expected. I will answer them as I am best able."

"Who are you?"

"My name is Arthur."

"That tells me both nothing and everything I need to know about you. You're in hiding then?"

Arthur shook his head. "I do not like that. I hide from no one–let us say I am traveling in secret. It is a recent development, anyhow."

"I see," the septon said. And the conclusion that Arthur had ended up on the wrong side of the rebellion would have been a simple one for him to come to. "It is no business of mine or this village's. We have done right by you. Hopefully, you will return the favor and quickly be on your way."

Arthur nodded, "Once I have my things, I will go."

The septon looked surprised, "I did not mean now. Can you even walk?"

Arthur looked down at himself. He was wrapped in a sheet and lifted it to review the damage to his body. A thick bandage wrapped his midsection, was well around his upper thigh. Carefully, he pressed a hand to his face. A gauze pad had been attached with resin to where the arrow had struck him. His best estimation for that was it had ripped through his cheek and stuck there, halfway in his mouth, halfway out. The slant of his visor had probably saved him from death–Howland would have been unable to get a direct shot on Arthur's head.

Tentatively, he eased himself down from the slab and onto his feet. He nearly collapsed and the septon shot up to catch him, but Arthur put one hand on the slab to steady himself and waved the septon off.

Gradually, he straightened, willing himself upright. It hurt, there was no denying that. The pain in his side and leg was very real. But the wounds did not reopen and he stood of his own power.

"I have only more questions," the septon said after a moment.

"I am not surprised. But take me to my things and we can talk at length."

—

Arthur's belongings such as they were, had been piled unceremoniously in one of the sept's pews. Only Rhaegar's harp been treated with respect, leaning on its own against the pew's back.

His Kingsguard armor was scrapped, the lacquer peeling, punctured, and thoroughly dirty. Even then, it was probably still one of the most expensive pieces of steel in existence and thoroughly recognizable.

"You can keep the armor," he told the septon. "If you sell it, it will fetch a high price. Accept that as repayment for your services."

"Thank you," the septon said, bowing graciously.

"Remove the lacquer before you sell it," Arthur said after a moment's further thought. "There will be questions, otherwise."

"I am not so blind or ignorant as you think," the septon said. "I know what you are."

Arthur paused for a moment, glancing around the sept. It was small and modest–seven sandstone walls, seven stained glass panes depicting each a different face of the god. Pews and altars with candles burning. But no other visitors.

"Then you know the danger your village faces the longer I remain here," Arthur said, pulling his back of rations put onto his shoulder. It was heavier than he remembered and a peek inside revealed that several full waterskins had been added to it.

"There is only one Kingsguard named Arthur, Ser Dayne," the septon said. "There is not a man or woman in Dorne who would raise their hand to you."

"It is not the men and women in Dorne I worry of," Arthur said dryly. "My celebrity is no longer to my benefit."

"That does not mean you cannot rest a day," the septon said. "We spoon fed you porridge and water, but if you intend to cross out of the Red Mountains you will need solid food. Rest in my sept for the night. No harm will come to you here."

Arthur wanted to argue, but the septon was right. He needed to be at full strength if he was to make it to Starfall. He would have to cross out of the Red Mountains, through the fertile valleys of the Torrentine itself, before arriving home. A moment's respite before then, especially after his near-death experience, would be nice.

"All right. You have convinced me," Arthur said. He picked up his sword belt, complete with scavenged sword, "But I will carry this, all the same."

The septon watched as Arthur buckled on his weapon and said, "I thought it would look… different. Less ordinary."

Arthur didn't bother to correct him and admit that he had lost Dawn. A Sword of the Morning wasn't supposed to lose their sword of the morning. Instead he answered, "Everyone says that." The Sword of the Morning didn't lie, but no one said he had to be a walking grammarian either.

—

This village, which its inhabitants referred to as simply "the village" and Arthur assumed the Fowlers referred as "that tiny place north of Skyreach," was so insignificant as to not have an inn. It did, however, have a boarding house that opened when guests–usually the Fowlers themselves–were visiting, and offered drinks to locals during twilight hours when it was no longer bright enough to work the fields but too early to sleep. Thus, it was one of the nicer buildings.

Arthur and the septon occupied a spot in one of the public room's corners. They had been cooked a thick stew and Arthur marveled at how the flavor of Dornish food, enough that from a village in the middle of nowhere such as this, was so much superior to food anywhere else in Westeros. It could have been because this was the food he had eaten growing up, but the food outside Dorne, that of nobles and smallfolk alike, was simply bland. They didn't have quite the same level of inventive cuisine as Arthur's country.

"I will tell you everything I know," the septon said in low voice, speaking under the din of the room. "The armies of the Prince of Dragonstone and the Lord of Storm's End met at the trident. There, the prince perished and his army was shattered."

"I know this," Arthur said, trying his best to eat in moderation, but found himself so hungry that it was all he could do to not shovel the stew into his mouth. "The last word I heard was that King's Landing had fallen and all of the royal family, except the queen and Prince Viserys, were slain. Nothing else."

"It fell to betrayal. Tywin Lannister was let into the city and then sacked it. His son, at the same time, assassinated the king."

"I know this too."

"And do you know that he had Elia Martell raped?"

Arthur's blood ran cold.

"And her children butchered before her?"

Arthur shook his head slowly. "No. That is barbaric. I knew they had been killed. But that… If I had…"

He would've cut Eddard Stark to ribbons. Damn what Rhaegar, what Lyanna, would've thought of that. He would have seen only red.

Perhaps it was better that he hadn't known.

"So you see why I saw none would dare raise a hand to you. This is a conflict beyond that in the Seven Kingdoms. The greatest insult was done directly to Dorne. They do not see us as people, past the marches."

Elia raped and murdered. What had Ashara made of that? She and Elia had been fast friends. Ashara was so sensitive to begin with. To hear that her princess had been killed in such a manner would have shattered her. He hoped Ulrick had laid the news on her gently.

Arthur sometimes marveled at the cruelty others were capable of. He had killed many men, but none who either hadn't deserved it or given him no other choice. The Sword of the Morning did not bestow the gift of death to those who did not warrant it. But to hear of such senseless violence numbed him.

"The queen and prince are there now," the septon said. "The royal fleet keeps any from approaching."

"Viserys is king by right," Arthur said. As well as a seven-year-old boy born of an incestuous union to a tyrant, without allies or supporters. Any restoration effort in his name would be hard fought.

"Will you go to him?" The septon asked. "You are on the wrong side of Westeros, if so."

"I know where I will find a ship," Arthur said. His destination had been Starfall anyhow.

The septon nodded, "I will pray for you."

"I will need more than prayers. But I thank you all the same."

"You are not quite what I imagine," the septon said. His whole face was covered by that beard, but Arthur could see the hints of a smile.

"What do you imagine?"

"I imagined an ideal manifest as a person. I imagined you to be spouting parables about 'honor' and 'justice.'"

Arthur laughed, "You do not know me. Perhaps I have, on occasion, done so."

"No. There is a kind of humility about you. I can't quite put my finger on it. But it is in how you carry yourself. I can see why people speak of you as more of a force than a man. You seem invincible."

"You and I both know that is a thing far from true."

"No, you indeed bleed. But, as I said, you should have died. Those were not wounds I would wager on one surviving. You are either extraordinarily strong, or extraordinarily lucky."

Arthur said nothing to this, only offered a tight smile. He was anything but lucky.

—

He left early the next morning when the sun was nothing but an orange disk, hanging low in the sky. As though each mountain was a finger, and the desert a bowl, cupped in a giant's hand. Arthur smiled at such an absurd thought.

He had been walking down the hill the sept was on, Rhaegar's harp under his arm, his supplies over his shoulder, when he heard the door slam shut behind him and turned. The silent sister was hurrying towards him, something clutched in her hand. He stopped and turned towards her.

When she was before him she stopped and held whatever it was she had out to him–three arrowheads, those extracted from his body. Covered with brown flecks of dried blind.

"Why give them to me?" Arthur asked her. The silent sister shrugged. They were steel, and steel was hard to come by out here. She could have kept them, had they reworked into nails or a tool.

He wouldn't reject the gift. He took the arrow heads and tucked them into his bag. "Thank you. Both for the gift and saving my life. I have nothing to offer but my gratitude."

The silent sister nodded and then made a shooing motion at him.

Arthur started down the hill again. Halfway towards the village, he realized he owed the septon for yesterday's meal, and turned back to return the arrowheads. But she was already gone and the sept's doors closed.

He walked out of the village and into the desert. The sun began to appear from out behind the Red Mountains, mercilessly scorching. Arthur pulled the scarf he had been given high and tight around his head.

The sun was at his back and as he walked into the west his shadow stretched long before him.