| Author's Note: Some events have been adjusted to occur earlier than in the original timeline to better serve the story's narrative.
Enjoy the read!
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{ A Game Of Thrones Fanfic: 'The Fallen Stark' } × { A Song Of Ice And Fire }
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| Tower Of Joy, Dorne - Anakin Stark - 283 AC:
The company of northern lords spoke little on their journey from King's Landing to the sun-scorched foothills of the Red Mountains of Dorne.
Eleven days had passed since they left the chaotic ruin of the Red Keep, the stench of fires and blood across the streets still clinging to memory. The sacking of King's Landing had been a hateful thing, a display of madness and cruelty that Anakin Stark had no love for.
And so, he now welcomed the silence.
Each hoofbeat against the dry earth was a drum in his mind, marking the slow, inevitable march toward whatever lay ahead.
He had turned the possibilities over and over, each one gnawing at him like a wolf's hunger, his mood darkening with every hour.
The men with him understood, their words were few, their conversations sparse.
Even his younger brother, normally quick to speak with him around, held his tongue.
The journey itself was grueling enough,— heat bearing down on them, dust coating their skin and clothes like a second layer.
It was a cursed place for his sister to have been taken.
"I see the tower up ahead!" Ned's voice cut through the hush, taut with anticipation, and at once, the men stirred, shoulders squaring, hands shifting toward their sword hilts.
The structure loomed in the distance, pale stone rising like a defiant sentinel against the barren landscape.
Two figures in white stood before it, their polished armor gleaming under the sun,— statuesque, unyielding, radiating quiet menace.
The Northmen dismounted in one fluid motion, securing their horses before advancing.
Their steps were measured, cautious, boots crunching against the dry earth as they closed the distance. The two Kingsguard did not move, and from the entrance of the tower, another emerged.
Arthur Dayne,— helmet in hand, with two swords strapped to his waist.
Silence fell, heavy and expectant.
Anakin's sharp gaze swept over the knights, taking their measure, and he cursed the odds. Even with the numbers on their side, three of the finest knights in Westeros stood before them.
He exhaled, steadying himself.
He had no desire for bloodshed, but he would spill it if necessary. Yet, it was Ned who first took a step forward, his voice hard as steel. "We looked for you at the Trident."
Arthur Dayne's face remained impassive, his eyes locked onto Anakin's own, as he made to answer. "We weren't there." and Oswell Whent's mouth curled in disdain. "Had we been, your usurper of a friend would be dead on the ground."
Gerold Hightower, the white bull, said nothing, but his keen eyes weighed their group, calculating. The odds might have favored the Northmen in numbers, but against them three, the matter was far from certain.
A shift rippled through their company, hands twitching toward their weapons.
Ned opened his mouth to retort, but Anakin raised a hand, cutting him off. His gaze, cold and unwavering, silenced his younger brother. "That's enough."
Ned hesitated but obeyed, though his jaw remained clenched in fury.
Anakin turned back to the Kingsguard, their expressions unreadable, for he knew they recognized him.
"The Black Wolf himself." Oswell murmured, sizing him up, but Anakin paid him no mind.
The name had followed him since his years in the Westerlands, but here, it was meaningless.
His focus however, was on the Lord Commander. "Why weren't you at the Trident, besides your beloved prince?" His voice was quiet, yet it carried.
Gerold Hightower did not falter. "Prince Rhaegar ordered us to remain here, to guard the tower."
"Why?" Ned demanded, but Anakin already knew the answer. He could see it in the way they stood,— not just in defiance, but in duty.
Still, he needed to hear it. He needed to see her. "It doesn't matter why you weren't there." he said, voice measured.
"What matters is that my sister is inside that tower. There is no need for bloodshed, let me take her with me, and none need die." Arthur and Oswell exchanged a look, but it was Gerold who answered. "I'm afraid that will not be possible, Lord Stark."
Anakin's fingers curled into a fist. "And why is that?"
Gerold's expression did not shift. "Because the queen is in no condition to travel,— and even if she were, we would not allow you to take her."
"The queen?" Ned's voice rose in disbelief, while his anger flared, eyes wide with fury.
"Are you mad? Where is my sister?!" He shouted, and Anakin exhaled sharply through his nose.
Fool.
Ned still clung to the belief that Lyanna had been stolen, but the truth, however, had been clear to Anakin for some time.
The rebellion was built on a lie,— one he had always suspected but could not prove.
"So that's how it is." The words carried weight, settling over the group like a drawn blade.
The northern lords behind him shifted, uneasy, and even his brother turned to him, searching his face for answers, but Anakin did not look away from the Kingsguard.
"I don't care about Rhaegar, and I don't care about your oaths." he said, his voice quieter now, measured. Yet beneath it, something simmered, dark and unrelenting. "I only need to see my sister, speak to her." A pause, and a warning. "Do not stand in my way."
If one looked closely into his grey eyes, they might have seen the faintest glimmer of gold creeping into his iris, but alas, no one did.
Gerold Hightower did not waver at the warning tone. "Our duty is to the royal family, and so we protect the queen widow and the child she carries. You will not pass."
The words landed like a blow to most, while some of the Northmen bristled, hands tightening around sword hilts.
Ned's shock was palpable, but Anakin, however, remained still. He had long expected this.
A long moment stretched between them.
"Very well." Anakin murmured, and the rasp of steel rang out as swords were drawn on both sides, though Ice remained sheathed upon Anakin's back,— for now.
Arthur Dayne met his gaze, his expression unreadable beneath the weight of what was to come. He gave a solemn nod. "I wish you good fortune in the wars to come." With slow, deliberate precision, he slid his helmet over his head and settled into his stance.
Beside him, Oswell Whent lifted his blade, his grip firm. Gerold Hightower, the White Bull, loomed like an unmovable force, the pommel of his longsword gleaming under the pitiless Dornish sun.
Anakin's fingers curled around Ice's hilt, knuckles white. "Would you truly die for this folly?" His voice was low, edged with something raw. "Would you throw your lives away for this madness?"
Gerold's jaw tightened. "We are the Kingsguard,— our duty and our lives belong to the royal family." There was no hesitation in his voice, only the inevitability of what must be.
Arthur's gaze did not waver. "And now it begins." And Eddard Stark's response was quiet, cold as the winds of the North. "No."
His sword glinted as he leveled it at the Kingsguard. "Now it ends."
Steel clashed with steel, the sound ringing sharp against the desolate hills. The wind howled through the wasteland, carrying the grunts of men and the wet, sickening thud of swords meeting flesh.
The Tower of Joy loomed in silent witness to the slaughter.
Ethan Glover struck first, lunging at Oswell Whent, hoping to break the knight's stance.
But Whent moved with effortless grace, as though battle had sculpted him into something beyond mortal, his longsword deflecting Ethan Glover's strike in a brutal parry, and in the same breath, he twisted, his blade carving a wicked arc that tore into Ethan's side.
A gasp, and blood bloomed across his tunic.
Stumbling, Ethan barely had time to register his own death before Whent drove his sword through his chest, twisting before ripping free.
Ethan's corpse fell, lifeless, forgotten.
Howland Reed was next, darting forward like a shadow, small and swift. He feinted low, aiming for Whent's legs, while Eddard brought his sword down in a crushing two-handed stroke.
The Kingsguard met the heavier blade, blocking it,— but the sheer force staggered him. Howland seized the moment, lunging in with his dirk, the blade slicing into the vulnerable gap beneath Whent's arm.
A snarl of pain, and Whent lashed out, his sword flicking across Reed's brow, sending a stream of blood into the crannogman's eyes.
But Howland did not stop, he tore his blade free and struck again, this time burying it deep into Whent's throat.
The Kingsguard choked, a gurgling sound that turned to silence as he collapsed.
Across the battlefield, Gerold Hightower was relentless, a wall of muscle and steel, each strike of his sword a hammer blow.
Martyn Cassel's shield splintered under the assault, and he barely had time to cry out before the White Bull's next stroke split his skull open.
Mark Ryswell and Theo Wull charged him together, desperation in every motion.
Gerold met Ryswell's sword and drove a gauntleted fist into his throat, making the Northern lord fall, gasping, choking on his own shattered windpipe. Wull swung low, but the Kingsguard twisted, his own blade carving through Wull's side, nearly severing him in half.
Only Lord William Dustin remained.
His sword met the Kingsguard's in a storm of clashing steel,— strength against strength.
But strength alone was not enough.
With a final, crushing blow, Gerold disarmed him, sending his sword spinning into the sand. He did not hesitate, as his blade plunged into Dustin's chest, ripping free a heartbeat later.
And then there were two men left near him.
Howland Reed and Eddard Stark stood among the fallen, blood dripping from their swords, their breath ragged as they turned to face the White Bull.
But on the other side of the battlefield, Anakin Stark and Arthur Dayne were no longer men.
They were forces of nature, as the Sword of the Morning wielded two blades, one of them Dawn, its pale surface glowing even under the unforgiving Dornish sun. Anakin moved like the storm, his Valyrian-Steel sword Ice deflecting one strike, dodging another, his body a weapon honed by war.
They danced across the sand, neither yielding ground, neither claiming it.
Ser Arthur Dayne pressed forward, his left-hand sword striking for Anakin's ribs while Dawn swept downward. Anakin pivoted, barely avoiding the bite of the legendary blade, turning Ice to knock aside the other strike. He countered with a brutal backswing,— Dayne ducked, striking with the pommel of his sword.
A sharp pain in his ribs, and a grunt escaped Anakin's lips, but he did not fall. Instead, he drove his armored elbow into Dayne's protected face, making the knight stumble back slightly.
They circled each other, breath ragged, dust clinging to sweat-slicked skin.
Anakin feinted high, then swept Ice low, while Arthur Dayne leapt back, dodging the strike,— but he did not relent. He moved like a shadow, closing the distance before Anakin could capitalize, his two blades wove a deadly pattern, striking from angles impossible to follow.
Ice caught one, but the other sliced through leather, biting into Anakin's side.
Pain flared,— and Anakin bared his teeth, stepping into it, driving his knee into Dayne's armored gut. The Kingsguard barely faltered before twisting Dawn upward, slicing a shallow line across Anakin's brow.
They both bled, and yet neither yielded.
Then came,— a scream,— Lyanna's scream.
Arthur hesitated, his head briefly snapping toward the Tower, a consequence of the sound that should not have been.
Anakin froze as well, his breath caught in his throat. Their gazes met,— purple eyes to gray turning yellow, as understanding passed between them in the briefest of moments.
Without a word, they turned, their duel abandoned, and they ran.
Behind them, Eddard Stark and Howland Reed stood victorious over the fallen White Bull. But as they looker on to the running man, they did not question, did not hesitate.
They simply... followed.
And so the four men entered the Tower in silence, their hurried steps the only sound in the tomb they had made of the Tower of Joy's courtyard.
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| Inside Winterfell's walls, The North - Rickard Stark - 267 AC:
The wind howled beyond the high walls of Winterfell, carrying with it the bite of ice and the mournful song of the North. It slipped through the cracks in the stone, rattled the heavy shutters, and sent a flickering tremor through the flames in the hearth.
Said flames burned hot, yet their warmth did little to reach Rickard Stark, seated alone in his solar, his hands resting atop the letter he had now read twice over.
The parchment was thick beneath his fingers, the ink bold, deliberate. The seal,— once whole,— was now broken, though its impression remained.
The falcon of House Arryn, wings spread wide, its talons poised as if to strike.
Rickard's breath was slow and measured as he ran his calloused thumb over the sigil, gaze lingering before he finally unfolded the letter once more.
The firelight played upon the words, making them seem to shift as he read, though he already knew their meaning by heart.
'To the Lord of Winterfell, Warden of the North,
The winds shift, as they always do. In times past, they have carried whispers from King's Landing, and now they bear the weight of something greater,— an unspoken truth, heavy as the snow upon the mountains of the north.
There are matters best discussed beyond ink and parchment, for some words are meant to be spoken in the hush of candlelight rather than committed to the ages.
The realm has known kings both wise and foolish, yet never before has the fate of so many rested in the hands of so few.
A king rules, but does he listen to other counsel? The Seven Kingdoms still thrive, but will they endure such madness for much longer?
I would speak with you, and with other men who understand duty beyond the oaths we swore,— to a throne, to a name, to the past.
What was may not always be, and what shall come must be met with steady hands.
We should meet before the next thaw,— the Vale is open to friends of honor.
Jon Arryn, Lord of the Eyrie, Defender of the Vale, and Warden of the East.'
The words were carefully chosen, precise as the cut of a masterful blade. There was nothing in them that spoke outright of treason, yet the intent lay beneath, woven into the fabric of caution and subtlety.
Rickard exhaled, slow and measured, as he set the letter upon his desk. His jaw tensed, fingers drumming soundlessly against the wood, while his other hand curled around his wine cup, though he did not yet bring it to his lips.
He knew Jon Arryn to be a measured man, one who did not act on impulse or indulge in idle speculation. If he had written this, it was not without great thought,— nor without cause.
But why now?
Rickard was not one to be ruled by paranoia, but he was no fool,— King Aerys had been erratic for years, his mind twisted by the ghosts of Duskendale, his paranoia festering like rot beneath the flesh of his rule.
He saw enemies where none stood, and shadows where only loyal men remained.
His distrust of Lord Tywin had become a known thing, whispered from court to court.
What once had been a partnership that shaped the realm had since curdled into suspicion, resentment. Yet even so, for Jon Arryn to reach beyond his own borders,— to send such a letter to the North,— suggested something greater.
Had he seen something? Heard whispers that Rickard, so far removed from the intrigues of court, had not?
And what of the "other men" he spoke of?
Rickard's fingers tightened around his cup.
If the Lord of the Eyrie sought allies, he had already cast his net beyond the North. The Vale was close to the Riverlands, and if there were talks of such weight, then surely Hoster Tully had been made aware.
He glanced toward the window, where the sky beyond had darkened to deep indigo, the moon veiled behind a shroud of cloud. The night carried the sound of the wind, yet beneath it, Winterfell remained still,— unknowing, unmoved.
But how long could that last?
A meeting in the Vale… It was no small journey, but it was not an impossible one.
The Starks had ever been loyal to the throne, loyal to the realm. Yet loyalty was a blade with two edges, and if the throne itself had become a danger to that realm, then what did duty demand?
Allegianceor action? He let out a breath, heavy as the weight settling upon his shoulders.
The answer would not come easily, but come it would.
And he would need to be ready when it did.
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{ A Game Of Thrones Fanfic: 'The Fallen Stark' } × { A Song Of Ice And Fire }
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Thoughts? I know that Duskendale was supposed to happen only in 277AC, but since I'm such a bad boy, it happened in early 267AC. Deal with it, bishes.