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Game of Thrones White Dragon Rising
Game of Thrones The Sun Dragon Descends
As the first shards of dawn pierced the night sky over the Dornish Marches, Euron, Ned, and Oberyn rode out from the gates of Nightsong. They spurred their horses south, galloping hard toward the Prince's Pass.
Iron hooves kicked up clouds of red dust as the three men cut through the terrain in silence. The land grew wilder, more desolate with every league.
As the sun climbed, the heat became a physical weight. The sun beat down without mercy, baking the stony ground until it radiated heat like an oven. By the time the sun reached its zenith—the cruelest hour of the day—the legendary tower finally rose into view at the edge of their vision.
At the end of a northern spur of the Red Mountains, standing lonely sentinel at the highest point of the Prince's Pass, stood the Tower of Joy.
It was an ancient round tower built of pale red stone. Under the scorching sun, it looked like a silent watchman burning quietly in a sea of sand. It wasn't particularly tall, but it commanded the high ground, looking down the throat of the pass that led into the heart of Dorne.
The sound of hooves shattering the desert silence carried through the shimmering air, reaching the very top of the tower.
atop the parapets, three knights in white cloaks—Ser Gerold Hightower, Ser Arthur Dayne, and Ser Oswell Whent—turned toward the sound almost in unison. They exchanged a single glance. No words were needed; they knew who had come, and they knew what it meant.
Without hesitation, the three Kingsguard descended the spiral stone steps. Their heavy white cloaks stirred the dust in the dim interior, their armor chiming with a heavy, rhythmic cadence. When they pushed open the thick oak door at the base of the tower, the blinding sunlight swallowed them whole.
They did not hide inside. They walked straight out to stand shoulder-to-shoulder before the tower's only entrance. A white wall of steel and duty, silently awaiting their three uninvited guests. The red sand stretched out beneath their boots, their shadows cast long and sharp by the noon sun.
The air hung heavy with a suffocating silence, the kind that comes before a storm.
---
The long, narrow shadow of the Tower of Joy cut across the red sand like a boundary line. Ned Stark reined in his horse, his grey eyes sweeping over the three white knights. His voice carried the cold solemnity of the North, mixed with genuine confusion.
"I looked for you on the Trident," Ned said.
"We were not there," Ser Gerold Hightower answered. His voice was flat, stating a fact that had nothing to do with him.
"Woe to the Usurper if we had been," Ser Oswell Whent added with a dark snort, the ghost of a battle-lust in his tone.
Ned didn't press the point. He moved to a deeper betrayal. "When King's Landing fell, and Ser Jaime slew your King with a golden sword, I wondered where you were."
This time, Ser Gerold took a small step forward, his white cloak snapping in the hot wind. His voice remained steady, but there was iron in it now. "We are here. We guard the Lady Lyanna by Prince Rhaegar's command." He paused, his gaze sharpening. "And far away... or Aerys would yet sit the Iron Throne, and our false brother would burn in seven hells."
A silence fell over the group. The three Kingsguard stood like statues under the sun, but in their eyes, a deep, suppressed grief flickered—grief for the King they failed to save, for the vows stained by others, and for a fate that offered no clean way out.
Euron Greyjoy's voice broke the silence, dripping with brutal realism.
"Even if you had stood at the Trident, you couldn't have turned the tide. Aerys had lost the realm; he was a mad dog, unfit to rule. As for Rhaegar..." Euron paused, sneering slightly. "He may have been a noble knight, but he was indecisive. He was never cut out to be a strong king."
He continued listing the cold, hard facts, each word hammering against the knights' resolve. "The Mad King is dead. Rhaegar is gone. Queen Rhaella and her remaining brood are trapped on Dragonstone. Tywin Lannister tricked his way into the capital and sacked the city. Mace Tyrell and Paxter Redwyne have bent the knee to the new King. The realm is united. The war... is over."
Ned Stark spoke again, his tone softer now, offering an honorable path. "Ser Willem Darry is fled to Dragonstone with your Queen and Prince Viserys. If you choose to ride and join them, I swear on my honor, I will not stop you."
"Ser Willem is a good man and true," Ser Oswell admitted, his voice low.
But Ser Gerold shook his head slowly. "But not of the Kingsguard," he said, his conviction hard as stone. "The Kingsguard does not flee." He looked from his brothers to Ned. "Then or now."
"We swore a vow," Ser Arthur Dayne said softly. He lifted his great helm and slowly placed it over his head. "And now it begins." The helmet hid his face, leaving only the determination in his stance.
"And we are still alive," old Ser Gerold finished, as if writing the footnote to their lives, "only because that vow is not yet fulfilled."
Euron stepped forward, the hot desert wind tugging at his black coat. His question cut straight to the bone. "Ned Stark is Lyanna's only living blood. Rhaegar is dead. The most logical, rightful ending is for him to take his sister back to Winterfell, or to Robert. What is the point of you blocking the way now?"
Ser Arthur Dayne's voice echoed from behind the visor of his helm, calm and deep. "To you, and to many, perhaps that is so. But not to us."
"Then what are you holding on to?" Euron asked, a trace of mockery in his voice.
Ser Arthur's hand rested lightly on the pommel of Dawn. "We missed the Trident. We missed King's Landing. We failed to protect the King we swore to shield. That is a stain we cannot wash away." He paused, emphasizing every syllable. "But we will not fail the last command Prince Rhaegar gave to us. That is the only dignity the Kingsguard has left."
Euron almost laughed. "By guarding a desolate tower in the middle of nowhere?"
"Yes." Arthur's answer was a single word, standing as immovable as the tower itself.
Ned Stark's hand tightened around the hilt of Ice, his knuckles turning white. He took a step forward, his voice raspy with suppressed anxiety and fear.
"My sister... Lyanna... where is she?"
Ser Arthur Dayne raised a gauntleted hand and pointed to the top of the round tower.
"Up there," his voice came through the helm, terrifyingly calm. "Defeat us, and you may see her."
He reached over his shoulder and drew the legendary greatsword, Dawn. As he raised it high with both hands, the blade—pale as milkglass—seemed to drink in the scorching sunlight. It glowed with a mysterious, milky luminescence, the edge pulsing as if it held a life of its own.
"And now," Ser Arthur announced, "it begins."
Ned closed his eyes in pain, then snapped them open. The grey of his irises was filled with a sorrow that could not be healed.
"No," he said, his voice low and final. "Now it ends."
The desert wind howled, and the shadows of the confrontation stretched long across the red sand, as if time itself had frozen in anticipation of the first blow.