Chapter 3:

Dusk had settled, turning the landscape into a sea of shifting shadows. The rocky hills of southern Westeros stretched as far as the eye could see, bathed in a fading light as the day's final moments slipped away. Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, rode in silence, his mind torn between duty and the uncertainty of the path ahead.

In his arms, against his armor still marked by the blood of battle, rested the heir to House Targaryen. Aegon Targaryen, son of Rhaegar and Lyanna Stark, slept peacefully, unaware of the chaos and death surrounding him. The road was empty, but Arthur could feel the weight of unseen eyes in the air. They were being hunted. He knew it. But for now, they had a precious head start.

The steady rhythm of his horse's hooves echoed in the night, each step breaking the oppressive silence of the mountains. Arthur felt every fiber of his body tense, ready to react at the slightest hint of danger. His right hand instinctively gripped the hilt of his sword, Dawn, strapped to his saddle. That sword, forged from the heart of a fallen star, had been his faithful companion for years, and tonight, it was ready to protect him once again. But he knew that this child, Jon, was now his first and foremost responsibility.

Arthur looked down at the child resting in his arms. A prince without a kingdom, the last hope of a fallen dynasty. He could not fail. Not now.

The memories of the Tower of Joy were still fresh in his mind. Lyanna, lying on her makeshift bed, pale, dying, yet with an indomitable strength in her eyes. She had entrusted this child to him, as her final act of faith. Her voice echoed in his mind: "Protect him. Do not let this world forget him." Arthur repeated those words to himself over and over, like a mantra. He could not betray that promise.

Suddenly, the wind shifted. Arthur felt a chill run down his spine. Danger was approaching. He gently tugged at the reins, slowing his horse. His warrior's instincts, sharpened by years of battle, told him they were no longer alone.

Dull sounds, almost imperceptible at first, reached his ears. Riders. They were approaching quickly, coming from the southern hills. Robert Baratheon would not have wasted time in sending his men to hunt down what remained of the Targaryens. Arthur knew spies were everywhere. News of the Targaryen downfall had already swept across the Seven Kingdoms like wildfire. He had no choice: he had to flee once more.

Arthur spurred his horse forward, guiding it towards the nearest woods. The trees would be their ally, a shield in this moonless night. He plunged into the forest, ducking low in the saddle to avoid the hanging branches, his knight's cloak billowing behind him like a shadow. The darkness of the woods swallowed them up.

The sounds of hooves behind him grew louder. They were on his trail—there was no doubt now. He could hear the clatter of armor, the deep voices of Robert's men. Arthur didn't slow down. He knew these woods, and he knew that forests could be treacherous for those who didn't.

His thoughts collided in his mind. Was a fight inevitable? Could he battle while protecting Aegon? The dilemma gnawed at his heart, but he knew that if he had to draw his sword, it would be only to protect this child, not for his own honor. Each beat of his horse's hooves echoed through his body, a reminder of his mission.

Suddenly, the crack of branches breaking echoed around him. The riders had entered the woods. He could no longer run. He pulled the reins, dismounting in one fluid motion, with the agility of a trained soldier. He carefully placed the child in a hollow beneath the roots of a large tree, wrapping him snugly in his cloak. The child slept still, unaware of the danger.

Arthur drew Dawn, the blade glinting faintly in the darkness. He would fight for this child. He would protect him. That's what he had always done. His left hand gripped the hilt of a second sword strapped to his waist—less legendary than Dawn, but equally deadly in his hands.

The riders were closing in. Their torches lit the night like beacons announcing their arrival. There were four of them. Four armed men, heavily equipped, sent to kill the last scion of House Targaryen. Their faces were hidden by the shadows, but Arthur could already sense their determination, their thirst for blood.

The first rider entered the circle of light cast by the torches, his war cry piercing the air. But before he could finish his shout, Arthur was already upon him. He pivoted, bringing his sword down with frightening precision. Dawn cut through the air, and the man's head fell without a sound, rolling across the ground in a spray of blood.

The second rider barely had time to react. Arthur dodged his strike with ease, slipping under the raised sword. His second blade slashed through the man's throat in a quick, fluid motion, like a deadly dance. Blood splattered the trees, illuminated by the flickering flames of the torches.

The remaining two riders hesitated. They had never seen such a warrior. Arthur Dayne was not a legend for nothing. He embodied the art of combat, every movement executed with supernatural grace, every strike delivered with lethal efficiency.

But they were determined. They would not retreat. The third rider charged, sword raised, hoping to exploit Arthur's brief pause after the first two kills. But the Sword of the Morning was not a man to be underestimated. He blocked the blow with a simple rotation of his two swords, then brought them down in perfect synchronization, striking the weak points of the rider's armor. The man screamed, falling heavily from his horse.

The last rider looked at Arthur with fear. He knew he would not win this fight. His horse backed away slightly, as if even the animal sensed its rider's terror. But Arthur gave him no chance to flee. He advanced swiftly, his twin blades gleaming in the torchlight. In an instant, the final rider fell, his sword shattered, his lifeless body lying next to his mount.

Silence returned, broken only by the distant sounds of panicked horses fleeing. Arthur stood amidst the bodies, breathing heavily but calm. Dawn glimmered faintly, stained with blood but still as sharp as a falling star. The four men were dead, and the immediate threat was gone. But Arthur knew this was only the beginning. More would come.

He sheathed his swords and hurried back to the tree where he had hidden the child. Jon was still sleeping, unscathed and blissfully unaware of the battle that had just unfolded nearby. Arthur knelt beside him, a protective hand resting on his small forehead.

"You are safe, little prince," he whispered softly. "For now."

He stood up and carefully picked up Jon, holding him close. He knew he couldn't stay here. He had to keep moving. Dorne was still an option, but he needed to reach the coast. He had to leave Westeros before more came.

The first rays of dawn began to creep over the horizon, casting a pink hue across the sky. Arthur mounted his horse once more, holding Jon securely against his chest. He cast a final glance at the bodies around him, then turned his horse south. The road to the sea would be long and dangerous, but he had no choice.

The last Targaryen must live.