A/N: A new story! I had an idea and it escalated, as things sometimes do, to an entire story. This will not be a Jon messiah story, nor will it be a fix it. This will be game of thrones, as much as I can make it. That means death, chaos, and a lot of twists. Chaos is a ladder afterall, and, in this case, a ladder to some cool shit that I hope you'll enjoy reading as much as I did coming up with! We've got politics, war, magic, swords, intrigue, and romance.
Now, on to the story... Please leave a review if you enjoy, or have any thoughts to share!

Eddard Stark

Ned had never felt so tired, but now was not the time to falter. The dust kicked up from their arrival joined the sweat stinging at his eyes. The ride had been relentless and the sun baking. Even at this early hour he could feel his skin prickling at the heat beneath his armour.

Now that they had arrived, the tower and the men arrayed before it shimmered like an oasis. One way or another, the war ended here.

He gestured for his men to dismount. Their approach was slow, and suspicious, despite the flat and barren landscape that could hold no surprise.

Martyn Cassell stayed at his side, holding Ice at the ready.

Three white cloaks billowed in the wind. The helmet emblazoned with a black bat indicated Ser Oswell Whent, Lady Caitlyn's uncle. The next, a man larger than any Ned had ever seen, could only be the commander of the Kingsguard. To his right, Ser Arthur Dayne, Sword of the Morning, and brother to… well, that didn't matter anymore.

Ned frowned as the three knights of the realm slowly moved to place themselves at the entrance of the tower.

Ned held a fist out and his companions paused and waited.

Ned stalled. What were the right words for a situation as cruel as this? His presence here alone was enough to tell these men what they needed to know of events to the north, if a raven had not already warned them. The only question was, would they kneel like Ser Barristan, or fight to the death, like Martell and Darry?

"I looked for you on the Trident," Ned ventured.

"We weren't there," came the rumbling voice of Ser Gerold.

"Woe to the Usurper if we had been," said Ser Oswell. The Riverlands Knight had always had a dark sense of humour.

Ned regarded the three men, whose faces were set like stone. Ned's companions were shifting uncertainly. Ned wet his dry lips. He did not want to fight these men, if he did not have to, and his men felt the same. He tried a different avenue. "When King's Landing fell, Ser Jaime slew your king with a golden sword, and I wondered where you were."

Now it was the Kingsguard's turn to shift. "Far away," Ser Gerold said, voice short of a growl, "or Aerys would yet sit the Iron Throne, and our false brother would burn in the seven hells."

Ned's head started to buzz with the familiar sense of dread that came to him before battle. He could recognise the signs of men who had determined to die.

"I came down on Storm's End to lift the siege," Ned told them, almost askingly, "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 so easily," said Ser Arthur Dayne, taking a step forwards.

Ned held up his hand to prevent his men from reacting. Why would they fight now? Now that all was lost to them? Nothing was making sense. "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 Ser Oswell.

"But not of the Kingsguard," Ser Gerold rumbled. "The Kingsguard does not flee."

"The king is dead," Ned pointed out.

"Long live the king," said Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning. He unsheathed Dawn and held it with both hands. The blade was pale as milkglass, and danced in the bright Dornish light.

Ned could not make sense of their words, but their intent was clear. And besides, who was he to judge the oath of a Kingsguard? He pulled Ice from its sheath and held the blade before him.

"May the gods judge our oaths," he said with determined resignation.

"The gods have already decided," said Ser Arthur.

Ned had to immediately step back as the battle was joined, only the length of Ice keeping the blazingly fast longsword of Ser Gerold from striking him down. Ned could not discern time amidst the sound of crashing steel, the frenzy of movement, and the shock of his sword clashing with one much stronger than him. Not three strikes had been exchanged and already Ethan Glover lay beheaded on the ground. But two strikes further and Ser Gerold lost a hand, and then his life, to the sword of Willam Dustin. But, then Howland Reed fell from a gauntleted fist to the face, and Ser Arthur faced only three swords instead of four. Two strikes of the pale blade and both Willam and Theo were bloody on the ground.

Ned staggered as a parry cost him his footing. He regained it, but could do nothing but defend as the sword of the morning crashed against Ice, and then against his pauldron, and then his raised hand.

Ned staggered to his knees, eyes affixed to Ice, which was now on the ground, held by a hand no longer his own.

He looked up to Ser Arthur, who stood before him like the stranger himself. His armour was caked in blood, and flesh. It ran like a river down the length of his blade and, pooled on the ground before Ned.

Despite the pain of his lost hand, despite the pain of the futility of his fighting from Winterfell to Dorne, a strange peace settled upon him like a cloak. He looked upwards to the tower, and he saw Ser Arthur pause.

"Lyanna." Ned gasped. "My sister. Does she live?"

"Her Grace lives," Ser Oswell grunted, injured but alive.

Ned blinked, comprehension fleeting. "She— she and the prince were married? How?"

"In the manner of his house," spoke Ser Arthur.

"Why—"

"The King is dead," interrupted Ser Oswell. "Long live King Aegon Targaryen."

Ned shook his head. What had that to do with Lyanna. "The prince did not survive the sack of King's Landing—"

Ned paused, comprehension dawning. A shocked laugh escaped his lips.

"Your oaths are to the king," Ned said, finally understanding what kept these men in the desert, while there prince was dying on the field.

"And yours are to the Usurper," said Ser Oswell.

There was a pause.

"The gods have judged your oaths versus mine, my Lord." Ser Arthur said, and it was his turn now to sound almost pleading. "But new oaths can be sworn."

Ned met his eyes, "Not for me. My oaths were spoken before the gods and men. Robert Baratheon is King."

Ser Arthur nodded, and Ned felt that he was understood.

Tears rendered the world a blur as he tried to fix his eyes on the tower. He had not been born to be Lord of Winterfell. He had been born to follow oaths. He was glad, in a way, that he would be able to succeed at one. Even if it meant the end.

Ser Oswell approached, and gave a glance towards Ser Arthur. A nod, and the Sword of the Morning stood aside. Ser Oswell raised his sword, and Ned lowered his head. "Long live the King."