Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

It was with a morbid detachment that Arthur Dayne watched a lifetime of effort, sacrifice and duty turn to ashes on the Dornish Sea as his face was slammed into the deck of a ship he once called his own.

"You could have stayed in Essos, Robert had been persuaded to leave you in exile." Said a voice that he only vaguely recognized. A voice he's heard once in the distant summer of his life. Before the Usurper's War. Before winter had come in the form of hastily written ravens, an abandoned tower, and a single child swaddled among a trio of knights that slipped away to foreign lands with only swords at their sides, and vows around their necks. "How much war will Rhaegar's folly bring to our shores, Arthur? How many more innocent people must shed their blood in the name of a dead man?"

"Until the rightful king is upon the his throne. Until the drunken, whore-mongering Usurpers lays dead, and Rhaegar is avenged." The words came out of Arthur's mouth with practiced ease, but they tasted bitter now. He could still hear the roar of battle, of brave men who'd rallied to their cause. For coin, for honor, or for blood, but he knew the battle had been lost as soon as it had began. They'd been caught off guard. Ambushed within sight of safe haven. No matter how many men Arthur cut down as they boarded his ship, the tide didn't stop, until he was crushed under the weight of numbers.

He couldn't see through the wooden railing of the ship, but he could imagine the warm, sandy coastline of Dorne as a Northern footman kept his face pressed against the deck. He wondered who else had fallen, or been captured. His brother's in arms, who had spent their lives by his side to protect the new born king. The Dothraki, whose swords had been purchased by a princess's hand, and an assassin's ill-timed blade. Or Jaeherys.

Not Jaeherys, Arthur prayed. So long as Rhaegar's son still lived, the cause lived with him. His vows could be fulfilled, his damned avenged.

"Another son of the Mad King upon the Iron Throne is the last thing Westeros needs." Eddard said with a sigh, before he turned to various soldiers. He would have reports to deal with, Arthur thought. A battle to wage, and a war to win before it had even truly began. Time had been kind to the Northern Lord as he stood, commanding the battle that would end only with Arthur's own death. Where once stood a quiet young boy, to shy to beg for a dance, now stood a Lord Paramount that had crushed a dynasty beneath his heel once already, and now stood his foot upon the neck of the Targaryen restoration. On most, the monstrosity of a sword on his back that was the Stark family sword Ice would look ridiculous, but it only reinforced Eddard's air. He was to be their executioner.

"Lo-" Arthur began, in a vain hope that maybe he could convince him. That maybe, Arthur's wild tales of a Wolf and a Dragon falling in love could thaw an ounce of ice off the man. But his pleas were cut short as his face was slammed into the deck of the ship, silencing him.

"Quiet prisoner." The footman said, as Eddard continued to give orders to various soldiers that milled about the deck. Dark hair, and full-bodied beard, the footman was as Northern as they came, and looked upon Arthur with nothing but disgust. "You best count yourself lucky, for if Lord Stark wouldn't hang me for it, I'dda slit your throat by now and tossed you to the sea for what you did to the poor Lady Lyanna."

To think all these men were fighting for a lie. What they could have done if only they knew the truth, if anyone would believe him. Instead Arthur only mumbled, "What, I, did to Lady Stark?" That was a new accusation, one that almost made him laugh. He just might, with such little time left in his life. Eddard would offer him the Black, but he would refuse. His life had always been one of service to the crown, and only, service to the crown.

"Not much difference between the man who rapes a woman, and the man who helps him in my books." The footman said with a sniff. He had the look of a man whose opinion had long been made up, so Arthur didn't bother arguing. Everything hurt, and he could only pray. Pray to see Jaeherys again, to warn him of all the mistakes to avoid, to apologize for dragging him into his father's war, to tell him how much he loved the boy. Not for being Rhaegar's son, but for himself.

But the gods were cruel. For they answered in the form of an approaching ship that hailed Lord Stark.

Within minutes, there was the sound of two thuds, as two more people were thrown to the deck on either side of him. Glancing up from the wood grain, Arthur saw to his left the majority of Oswell Whent forced to his knees. A small pool of blood dripped from the hastily cauterized stump that had once been his sword arm. And Gerrolt to my right no doubt, Arthur thought before he turned his head. The Usurper would love nothing more than the last of the True Kingsguard executed public, or at least their heads to be left on display. Instead he saw a younger visage, with a shaggy mop of brown hair, sharp grey eyes and a snarl on his lips as he struggled against the men who held him to the deck. A brief struggle as the butt of a spear impacted his skull, dazing the young man.

"Hightower, and seven others gave their life to defend this one. There has been no reports of Viserys Targaryen, but he can not be far." Stannis Baratheon offered as an explanation to the boy's presence to whoever cared to listen. Eddard said nothing for a moment as he looked over Jaeherys, before he motioned to the footman restraining the boy. With a deft hand, the footman removed the hair blocking the young man's visage. Even with all the blood, and a bruised swelling under his jaw, Jaeherys was all Stark. Eddard writ small, as the rightful king glared up at his uncle.

Lord Stark simply stared in silence as he crouched to be at eye level with his nephew, his thoughts hidden under eyes of the coldest ice as he glared right back at Jaeherys.

"Who is he?" Lord Stark's gaze never left Jaeherys, but Arthur knew the question was meant for him. A cold pain gripped his heart as the words began to flow from his mouth.

"No one. Some sellsword from the Company of Roses who wanted to come home." It would explain his look, some long distant Stark blood that had stayed strong in the fields of Essos. His carefully crafted lies were met with more silence.

"Alec." That must have been the name of the footman that currently held him at bay, for Arthur felt the grip on his hair tighten as he readied himself for the blows to come. Four sharp impacts onto the ship's deck sent Arthur's head spinning, dimly registering Oswell and Jaeherys's struggles to break free to help him. They would be too late, they would always be too late. He thanked the Seven that he'd taught Jaeherys how to hold his tongue at times, unlike his newly deceased uncle. The boy might even make it out alive so long as he didn't antagonize his captors. That was Arthur's role to play.

"The truth." Lord Stark demanded once all protests from his prisoners were silenced.

"Why does it matter? He's just a boy?" And you already seem to know, Arthur thought with a bitter sigh. He'd spent half his life on this war. He missed Starfall, and it's calm waves. Ashara and her laughter. His brother, and the nephew he never got to hold. Good, Dornish food rather than the bland gruel he'd stomached for years. He'd rather die fighting, but he just wanted it to be over, one way or another. But he'd sworn his vows, pledged his sword, and now must continue to wear the chains of his vows. "Just some kid with a dream, a bad attitude, and a sword at his hip."

Still silence. Then Lord Stark stood up. "Though all three of you are captives, and enemies of the crown, it is still your right to take the Black if you so wish. Ser Whent?"

Oswell spat at the man's feet. "A thousand curses upon the Usurper. You could have joined us Stark, and put the rightful king on the throne."

Lord Stark only turned his gaze to Arthur. Arthur had no more curses to give, just hoping that what allies they had in the kingdom would be able to rescue Jaeherys before he reached the Wall.

"I have my vows. I can not soil my cloak by turning it now, Lord Stark." Arthur said simply.

"More like the Night's Watch would be soiled having to feed you lot." Alec mumbled, quiet enough that only Arthur heard it as Lord Stark turned to the last of the trio.

"Your name boy." Jaeherys said nothing.

The silence hung in the air for a few moments. The two Stark's staring at each other as a growing dread began to fill Arthur's stomach. Finally, Jaeherys broke as his gaze shifted to Arthur's. "Jon, and I'll take the black, m'lord." He said with defeat, looking down in shame.

Arthur breathed a sigh of relief, thankful that Jaeherys could listen to reason. Unlike his father, a long buried part of his mind brought up, only to be pushed back down as a block was called for and Lord Stark drew Ice.

Titles for a false king were spoken, as Arthur watched one of the few remaining people he would name friends was cut down before him. But on his lips were only silent prayers, for Jaeherys's future, for his own, and for forgiveness. He was spent, and he could feel the weight of it all press down on him as Oswell- Oswell's body was moved aside, and he took his place.

More titles, and Arthur quietly shook his head when asked for any last words. With one last look at Jaeherys, Arthur bent his head and closed his eyes. He thought about at the people he'd see, and the apologies he'd have to make, but at the end of his life as the blade came down, he felt all the weight lift off his shoulders.

Chapter Text

Another day, another battle fought, another battle won. How many more did he have left in him? How many more lives must be lost before Westeros was at peace? These were the thoughts that kept Eddard Stark awake at night as his forces marched through Dorne towards the Reach. An army they had not needed, with a stroke of luck allowing the combined naval might of Lord's loyal to the King Robert to smash into the remnants of the Targaryen's before they had even made land fall. Lord Stannis had been given command of the navy, to hunt down the few enemy ships that had managed to escape the fray, or to return to business as usual. Now he was left with the task of returning these soldiers to their homes.

He doubted that Doran Martell would be foolish enough to act against him head on, but a well organized ambush, or raids from men they would not be able to catch on foot would bleed his strength dry before they crossed to greener lands. It would not be a victory for what few Targaryen loyalists remain, but it would make the battle on Dornish shores less of a crushing defeat.

Viserys Targeryan was killed in battle, his body thrown off the ship in the chaos of combat along with his mercenary bodyguards.

Jon Connington had died heroically, or so he'd been told. Shouting the name of a man who didn't deserve his loyalty.

Lady Daenerys had been captured and was now under watch by his own personal men. Decisions on her fate would have to come at a later time, but Ned swore, to her, and to himself that no harm would come to her.

Then there was the Kingsguard. Two, executed by his own sword while the last gave his life to protect another. A young man, with soft grey eyes and dark hair. A specter of Benjen and himself at a younger age. A boy whose mother could only have been his own blood.

There were nights he thought about Lyanna, and the war. What lies did the Targaryen heir whisper to her? Or what truths? Did she truly hate Robert so much as to abscond with Rhaegar? Did he promise to marry her? Set aside his own wife and children to be with her? It would be the only way. For what else would Lyanna be to preach about Robert's lack of faith, while she herself became little more than a paramour to a married man? Or was the tales sung throughout the kingdom true. Was Rhaegar as mad as his father, thinking that he could escape any consequences of kidnapping the daughter of a Lord Paramount, or the wrath of her betrothed. Eddard Stark would never know. If the young man that had already tried to escape been born of Lyanna's love, or as a last insult to her memory. Either way, 'Jon' as he was apparently named was his nephew, and any consequences of the boy's actions would fall to him.

He hoped they wouldn't. Ned wished to take the boy home, to show him Winterfall and allow him to meet his cousins. To allow him time in a land that could be his home, but Ned had already seen the boy's eyes after Arthur Dayne lost his head. Jon was young, and already poisoned against Robert by whatever words the Kingsguard had whispered in his ear since birth. And by Ned's own actions he could see that same poison in Jon's eyes when he looked at him. The Lord of Winterfell knew his death would not be a quick one, if it was delivered onto him by Rhaegar's son.

It was a feeling he could empathize with. Ned's own father had died in a mockery of justice, burned to death as his eldest son watched. Years ago, Ned had kept himself warm on even the coldest nights of the rebellion on how right it would feel to make Aerys suffer for his crimes. But those prayers had gone unanswered, and that job had passed to the Kingslayer.

He would not blame the boy for his hatred, but he would not allow him to drag the kingdom into another bloody war. Ned had done his duty before, and by delivering his nephew to the Night's Watch to swear his oaths, Ned would do it again, that was his curse. He was not his siblings who could shed their responsibilities like a cloak. There had been enough bloodshed in his life. Now was a time for peace.

But a noise outside his tent at such a late hour promised otherwise.

"My lord?" Jory Cassel's voice called quietly from the entrance from his tent.

"Yes?" Ned said as he raised himself from his cot. It seemed he'd be getting even less sleep than he thought tonight. They were making hard progress to the Boneway, and would be up before dawn, but Ned doubted he'd sleep at all tonight.

"There is a matter that requires your attention m'lord." The younger man said.

It had to be one of great importance if Jory thought it best to wake him, rather than leave it till morning. At least it wasn't an attack on the camp, Ned thought. If it was, there would be a lot more screaming, and a lot less time to get dressed.

"Aye, a moment to dress and I'll attend to it." The Lord of Winterfall said, appearing out of his tent moments later ready for whatever was in need of his attention at this late hour.

As if a cruel joke from the gods, it brought him before his nephew. The boy was bruised, and sporting a few minor cuts more than the last that Ned saw him, but it was still the same defiant looking eyes, and quiet snarl. This time some of the blood on his clothes didn't look to belong to him. On his knees, with his hands tied up he did not look like a threat that could break what little peace there was in Westeros.

"The boy tried to escape again m'lord." Jory explained with an edge to his voice.

"Another failed attempt?" Ned asked, as understanding was already dawning on him for why his presence was required. Prisoners attempting to escape was an accepted part of war, but to do so while taking a life would be bold. If you were not a prisoner of great importance, justice could be served. Swiftly.

"Yes m'lord. Thankfully our sentries found him before he could make it into the woods and apprehend him. But we've already found the body of one of the men set to guard him, along with another soldier that must have ran into him on the way out of the camp."

"And have all the other prisoners been accounted for?" Ned asked as he locked eyes with his nephew. There was steel in the boy's eyes, but it was raw, untempered and untested. 'Jon' was the first to look away.

A nod from Jory, and Jon's fate was set.

A moment, a weight that pressed down on Ned's shoulders as acceptance spread through him like the chill of morning.

"Bring me a block then. Jory, retrieve Ice from my tent." Ned said with a tone cold as winter, as he continued to stare at his nephew. How he wished to pass this off to another man. Ned never thought there would come a day where he would slay his own kin, but he would do his duty. He would not pass this sin onto another.

Moments of silence passed as a few common soldiers found a block, and Jory ran off to retrieve House Stark's ancestral sword. Neither Stark present said a word, even as the soldiers exchanged small talk. It wasn't until Jory's return that Jon finally spoke.

"I demand a trial by combat." The words were no sooner out of Jon's mouth than one of the soldiers laughed at them.

"And who are you to deserve one, ya dragon shit? You're common scum like the rest of us, not some uppity lord. Take your death like a real man." The soldier said before Ned could get a word in edgewise.

"I am the trueborn son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark. Heir to the Iron Throne. King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm. I am-" What he would have said next was lost as another soldier struck him in the back of his head with the butt of his spear.

"Got a lotta nerve scum, insulting the name of Lady Lyanna in the presence of Lord Stark himself." The soldier said before spitting on the back of Jon's head.

"I am owed a trial by combat. As a Targaryen, as a Stark, that is my right." Jon said, glaring at Ned from under his mop of disheveled hair. It was a look not belonging on that of a boy, no, this was a man. A young man who would cut him from chin to navel at the first chance he got.

"No. You are owed nothing, for you are neither." Ned said, his decision made, the words weighed heavy on him.

With those words Jon started to struggle out of his bonds, but he was still just one man as the pair of soldiers dragged him to the block.

"Kinslayer. You will be cursed for this." Jon shouted as Ned drew Ice from his scabbard.

"Then it is a curse I shall bear alone." Ned raised Ice. "In the name of Robert of House Baratheon, First of his Name. King of the Andal's and the First Men. Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm. I, Eddard of House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, sentence you to die."

With only a breath to collect himself, Ned thought of another life. Where the boy was Robert's and he could proudly call him nephew. Or another were the Kingsguard had not fled in the wake of Rhaegar's death. He would have taken the boy in as his own. A bastard nephew could just as easily become a bastard son, and just as easily protected. But that was not the life he was given, and where Jon Snow could have once been a wolf, he was instead a rabid dog, just waiting for a chance to run free and spread that particular Targaryen madness on a Westeros finally cleansed of it.

A chance that Ned would not allow as his sword descended.