The sun was a merciless hammer. It beat down upon the baked red earth of Dorne, and the heat that rose from the ground was a shimmering, visible thing. This was not a land for Starks. Every breath was a taste of dust, every gust of wind a furnace blast that offered no relief. The only sounds were the creak of saddle leather, the weary clink of mail, and the plodding of their horses' hooves.
He had six companions now, and the ghosts of a hundred more rode with them. He rode at their head, the weight of their losses a physical ache in his bones. He thought of his father, and of Brandon, their lives burned and choked away in the capital. He thought of all the good Northern men who had followed them south, only to fall on the Trident's banks, never to see the snows of home again. They had died for a righteous cause, he had told himself. But the justice he had found in King's Landing was a hollow thing, a betrayal of their sacrifice.
A victory that tasted of ash.
The city had not been a place of liberation. It had been a butcher's block. He remembered storming the Red Keep at the head of his men, only to find the great doors of the throne room already open. There, slumped at the foot of the Iron Throne, lay the body of Aerys Targaryen, his throat slit, his life's blood a dark pool on the marble floor. And upon the throne itself, a throne forged from the swords of conquered kings, sat Ser Jaime Lannister. His golden armor was pristine, but his Valyrian steel sword was stained with the blood of the king he had sworn to protect. Aerys was dead, yes. The Mad King was gone. But the madness had not left his throne.
His search had turned desperate then, a frantic hunt for the Princess Elia and her children. He and his men had pushed deeper into the royal keep, their boots echoing in the sudden, eerie silence. He found them in the royal nursery, a chamber that should have been filled with life and laughter. The air was thick with the coppery scent of blood. The red cloaks of Lannister men, their faces flushed with wine and victory, had been lounging in the antechamber, boasting of their deeds. He had shoved them aside, his hand tight on the pommel of Ice.
The sight within would haunt his dreams forever. Princess Elia Martell, a good and honorable woman from all he had heard, lay butchered near the cradle, her fine Dornish silks torn and stained. And her children… her children… He had nearly vomited in his helm. The cradle had been overturned, its fine silks ruined. A babe, Aegon, no older than his own Robb, had been dashed against a wall, his small head a ruin. And beside her mother, as if trying to hide, was little Rhaenys, a girl of only two namedays, a dozen dagger wounds in her small chest. She was wrapped in a crimson cloak, the color of her house and her killer's. He had seen it. He had borne witness to the savage end of the Targaryen line.
His fury was a cold, northern thing, but it was a patient fury now. Justice would not be found in the chaos of a sacked city. It would be demanded in the light of day, before gods and men.
The next morning, the throne room was filled with the great lords of the rebellion. Robert had arrived late the night before, and now held his first court. It had begun with a series of humiliations. He had watched as Robert, his face already flushed with wine, had stripped Ser Barristan Selmy of his white cloak, a petty, vindictive act against a man famed for his honor. Then, the king had turned to rewarding his allies. He had reached Tywin Lannister.
"For your loyalty and service in taking this city," Robert had boomed, "I grant your son, Ser Jaime Lannister, a full pardon for the unfortunate necessity of his actions."
Before anyone could cheer, Ned had stepped forward. His voice was not loud, but it cut through the hall like cold iron. "My lord of Arryn," he said, pointedly addressing the Hand of the King, not the King himself. "Before pardons are issued, justice must be served." He turned his gaze to the Kingslayer. "Ser Jaime slew his king. He has forsaken his oath. He must answer for his crime."
A shocked silence fell. He saw the flicker of outrage on Jaime's face, the way Tywin's eyes narrowed into slits of green ice.
Robert had waved a dismissive hand. "Jaime did the realm a service, Ned. Let it go."
"I will not," Ned said, his voice unwavering. He turned his gaze back to Robert, and it swept over the monstrous shape of Gregor Clegane, who stood among the Lannister men with a brutish smirk. "And I demand justice for the Princess Elia. And for her children."
He looked at Robert, searching his friend's face for a sign of shared honor, of grief. He found only the flushed, triumphant face of a king. Robert looked up, his blue eyes clouded with wine and victory. For a moment, there was only silence.
Then, Robert had laughed. It was not his old, booming laugh of the training yard or the feast hall. It was a harsh, ugly sound, devoid of mirth. A predator's laugh. It broke the silence, and then, like a disease, it spread. The Lannister men, taking their cue from their new king, began to chuckle, a low, cruel sound that grew into a chorus of mockery.
"I see no children," Robert had finally boomed, rising to his feet and clapping Tywin Lannister on the back, a gesture of obscene approval. "Only dragonspawn."
Jon Arryn had stepped between them then, his old face a mask of weary diplomacy, his words a balm on a festering wound, but the damage was done. Robert's words, followed by the chorus of cruel laughter, were more devastating than any physical blow. In that moment, something essential shattered. The brotherhood forged in the Eyrie, the one Ned had held as his life's anchor, fractured. The trust, the easy laughter, the shared sense of honour—all of it bled out on the stones of the Red Keep, leaving a permanent, gaping chasm between them. It left a wound that would never close. He looked at the man on the chair and saw not a brother, but a king he no longer understood, and all that remained on that side was a cold, joyless duty. With that bond so hollowed, another took precedence, one that was simple and absolute: his duty to his own blood. To Lyanna. Finding her was all that mattered now, the one true purpose left in this wretched war, and the path to that purpose had been lit by a memory steeped in its own sorrow.
The memory of his arrival at Starfall rose unbidden. He had gone seeking the sister of the Sword of Morning, hoping only for a clue. The solar he was shown into had been awash with light, but it had offered no warmth. Ashara Dayne had been a still, silent figure amidst the sunbeams, her sorrow not just for the brother she might lose, but for the princess she had served, the friend she had loved. Elia.
He remembered her famous violet eyes, not dancing as they had at Harrenhal, but swimming with unshed tears for the murdered children. There, in that quiet room, they had not been a Stark lord and a Dayne lady. They were just two people bound by a shared, horrified sorrow. He had told her what he'd seen in the capital, and in return, she had told him the truth. Her brother, Arthur, was in Dorne, guarding his sister. With a trembling voice, she had given him the tower's name. Rhaegar called it the Tower of Joy.
His horse chose that moment to miss its footing on the treacherous rock, a sharp stumble that sent a jolt up Ned's spine and shattered the memory. He blinked, the sun-drenched solar of Starfall dissolving back into the blinding glare of the Prince's Pass.
He looked over at Howland Reed, small and grim in his saddle. The little crannogman had been with him at Starfall. He knew the stakes. They all did.
The question was no longer a mystery of location, but a maddening riddle of loyalty. Rhaegar was dead, slain by Robert's own warhammer on the Trident. Aerys was dead. The world believed Rhaegar had stolen his sister, and that these men were her gaolers. But why would men of such legendary honour—the Sword of the Morning himself—continue to guard a captive for a dead prince? Their duty was to the king. Unless... unless they were not gaolers at all. Unless Lyanna was not a captive. The thought was a cold knot of dread in his stomach. What vow could be so great that it kept the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard and two of his sworn brothers at this lonely post, long after their king had turned to ash?
"My lord," Howland's quiet voice broke his reverie. He pointed a gloved hand towards the horizon.
Ned followed his gaze. There, rising from the red mountains like a spike of pale, sun-bleached bone, was a single, round tower. It stood alone, a silent sentinel against the endless blue sky.
The Tower of Joy. Ashara had spoken the name with tears in her eyes. A beautiful name for what Ned knew in his bones would be a place of profound sorrow.
He had come to the end of the world. He had come for his sister. He spurred his horse forward, his heart a heavy stone in his chest.
Author's Note:
Hey everyone, Rambo_Tara here! 👋
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