The wind howled through the mountains of Dorne, whipping the dust and sand into swirling clouds that clung to the stones of the Tower of Joy. The dying sun bathed the scene in a blood-red hue, painting the earth and sky in shades of crimson, as if nature itself was mourning the dead who lay strewn across the ground below. Ned Stark stood amidst the fallen, his breath heavy and labored, his heart weighed down by blood and duty. The name of this place—The Tower of Joy—had never felt more bitter.
The bodies of his companions lay scattered at his feet, motionless, their swords still gripped in stiff hands. Martyn Cassel lay a few paces away, his once-proud armor smeared with dust and gore, his lifeless eyes staring at the indifferent heavens. Willam Dustin had fallen nearby, his blood soaking into the earth. They had come here to rescue Lyanna, with hope in their hearts and steel in their hands, but that hope had been dashed with brutal finality.
Only Howland Reed still breathed behind him, though barely. He lay bleeding into the dirt, wounded but alive, his breaths shallow and ragged. There was nothing Reed could do now. The fight—if it could still be called a fight—was down to Ned Stark, and the man who stood before him.
Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, stood like a statue carved from marble, his two swords glinting coldly in the fading light. Dayne had not moved since the last of Ned's men had fallen, and yet there was no doubt in Ned's mind that he was ready to strike at any moment. Ser Arthur wasn't merely a knight. He was a legend, a man whose very name was whispered in awe across Westeros. And now, here he stood, the greatest swordsman Ned had ever faced, as calm as a stone in the face of a storm.
The sunlight caught the edges of his swords—Dawn, the pale blade said to have been forged from the heart of a fallen star, and a second, less famed but no less deadly weapon. Both were held with effortless grace, a testament to the mastery of the man who wielded them.
"They died with honor, Stark," Ser Arthur said, his voice calm and steady, as if stating a simple fact. "But you will not pass."
The wind carried his words away, scattering them into the air, yet their weight pressed down on Ned's chest like an anvil. His arms were heavy, his legs trembling under the strain of battle and loss. Lyanna was here, somewhere inside that tower, and every second wasted brought him closer to losing her forever. He had sworn to protect her, and that vow rang louder in his mind than the pain in his body.
Ned gritted his teeth and raised his sword. He could not win. He knew that much. But there was no choice. There was never any choice. He was a Stark, and Starks do not run. He had to face what lay before him, no matter the cost.
Ser Arthur adjusted his grip on his twin blades, his posture as fluid and perfect as a dancer's. He was waiting, patient, as if knowing that no matter how long it took, the outcome was inevitable. His movements were poised, controlled, as if every muscle in his body had been honed for this moment, for this fight.
Ned struck first.
He lunged forward, sword raised high, aiming for Dayne's chest. But Arthur parried the blow with a movement so smooth it seemed effortless, Dawn flashing in the sunlight as it knocked Ned's blade aside. The second sword followed, a blur of steel that whistled through the air towards Ned's head. Ned barely ducked in time, the tip of the blade grazing his cheek. One misstep, one fraction slower, and his life would have ended right there.
But it didn't. Not yet.
The fight had barely begun, and yet Ned could already feel his strength waning. Arthur Dayne was relentless, his twin swords moving with deadly precision, each strike as flawless as the last. Ned swung again, desperate to break through the knight's defenses, but Dayne was impenetrable. His blades moved like lightning, parrying, deflecting, striking back with lethal accuracy. Ned was outmatched—not just in skill, but in every way that mattered.
Still, he fought. He had to. For Lyanna.
Ned attacked again, feinting to the left before swinging to the right. But Arthur, once more, anticipated the move with ease. Dawn collided with Ned's sword in a burst of sparks, and the second blade flashed towards Ned's neck. He barely had time to dodge, feeling the cold kiss of the steel as it sliced a shallow cut across his flank. Blood bloomed, warm and thick, soaking into his clothes, but he had no time to acknowledge the pain.
"You are brave, Stark," Arthur said, his voice still as calm as ever, his face betraying no sign of strain. "But bravery alone will not save you."
Ned said nothing. He could barely breathe, let alone respond. He knew Ser Arthur was right. Bravery would not be enough to win this fight. Dayne's speed, his precision—every move was too perfect, too practiced. Each strike Ned attempted was met with an effortless counter, as though Arthur could read his thoughts, anticipating each swing before it even began.
The dance of blades continued. Ned swung for the legs, hoping to unbalance the Sword of the Morning, but Arthur dodged with a grace that seemed almost unnatural. His two blades moved as one, his every motion fluid and deadly. Steel clanged against steel, the sound ringing out in the empty air, a grim requiem for the fallen.
Ned's muscles screamed in protest. He was exhausted, every breath a labor, every strike slower than the last. His vision blurred, the blood loss taking its toll. He blinked rapidly, trying to focus, but he knew it was only a matter of time before his body gave out.
And then, it happened.
Ned raised his sword for another desperate attack, but Arthur was faster. Much faster. With a sudden, devastating swipe of Dawn, Arthur knocked Ned's sword aside, leaving him completely exposed. In the same fluid motion, his second blade flashed in the dying light, and Ned felt a blinding pain explode in his side.
The world seemed to tilt. Ned gasped, the air rushing from his lungs as his knees buckled beneath him. He fell to the ground, his hands instinctively clutching at the wound in his side, warm blood spilling between his fingers. He had been struck down.
Arthur Dayne stepped back, his face still composed, but his eyes—those piercing grey eyes—held no malice. He did not move to finish the job, though he easily could have.
"I have defeated you, Stark," Arthur said, his voice quiet but firm. "But you are not my enemy." He sheathed his swords, Dawn and the other gleaming blade sliding effortlessly into their scabbards. "Stay here and heal, if you can. Return to the North. I will not kill you today."
Ned's vision was swimming, his breath ragged and uneven. He wanted to speak, to protest, but the words caught in his throat. His body screamed with pain, and the taste of iron filled his mouth. He had failed.
Ser Arthur turned his back to Ned, his movements slow and deliberate. "Your sister is safe," he said, his voice echoing in the stillness. "I swore to protect her, and I will not break that vow."
Without another word, Arthur Dayne strode towards the tower. Each step seemed to reverberate through the earth, the weight of his presence unmistakable. The fading sunlight gleamed off his armor as he disappeared into the shadow of the tower, where Lyanna awaited.
Ned remained on his knees, blood pouring from his side, his strength ebbing away. The world around him grew dim, the horizon tilting and swaying as his body fought to stay conscious. He cast one final glance at the tower before his vision blurred completely. The last thing he saw before the darkness took him was the door to the tower closing behind Ser Arthur Dayne.