The Fall of a Legendary Kingsguard

Candlelight flickered on the third floor of the Tower of Joy.

Leon stood by the window, watching the morning light brighten outside, then turned to look at the three men in the room.

Gerold Hightower. Arthur Dayne. Oswell Whent.

Three white cloaks, three drawn swords, three silent faces.

Lyanna lay on the bed, no longer breathing. Her eyes were closed, and the faintest trace of a smile still lingered on her lips.

Leon had watched her draw her last breath yesterday.

Beside her, the newborn baby slept soundly. Jon Snow knew nothing of this world yet.

"You should leave," Leon said.

Gerold looked at him, his old eyes utterly still. "We swore an oath. The Kingsguard never flee in the face of danger."

Leon stared at the light in his chest-pure, almost transparent white, like a flame burning at its fiercest.

No fear, no hesitation. Only someone prepared to die would have that color.

"Rhaegar is dead, King's Landing has fallen, and Lyanna is dead too. What are you still guarding here?"

Silence.

Oswell Whent stepped forward, nothing but exhaustion on his once-flippant face. "Rhaegar's last command. Protect her. Protect the child."

He looked at the woman on the bed who no longer breathed, then at the baby.

"This is his child. Rhaegar's last child. We aren't guarding House Targaryen. We're keeping a promise."

Leon looked at his chest-dark red guilt, grayish-white confusion, and a trace of pale green reluctance.

He did not want to die. But he knew of no path left except death.

Leon turned to Arthur.

The Sword of the Morning stood in the shadows. His chest was a deep blue, with a barely perceptible trace of gold at the edges.

That was sorrow, but beneath the sorrow, something was gathering anew.

"You protected her until she gave birth. Now she's dead. Eddard Stark is on his way. What are you going to guard? A corpse?"

Arthur looked at him. "The child."

Leon walked to the bed and gently picked Jon up.

The baby stirred in his sleep, his little mouth parting slightly as he breathed evenly.

"This child will live. He'll grow up. He has his own life to live." He looked at Arthur.

"If you stay here and die fighting Eddard Stark, who will protect him afterward?"

Arthur's throat moved.

Leon put Jon back on the bed and motioned for Thea to take two Dragon Eggs from the bundle and place them on the table beside him.

The shells gleamed softly in the candlelight, like some ancient script, or sleeping blood vessels.

Arthur's breathing stopped for a moment.

"That's... the one from Dragonstone." His voice was hoarse. "Rhaegar found it when he was seventeen. I was the only person he ever told."

"He told me before he died," Leon said.

Arthur stared at the egg and remained silent for a long time. "Who was your mother?"

"Joanna Lannister."

Arthur shook his head. "That's not enough."

Maester Loomis stepped out of the shadows, his aged voice as steady as though he were giving a lesson:

"Young Master Leon's bloodline can be traced back to Shiera Seastar. Aegon IV's bastard daughter, Duke Bloodraven's sister. Her bloodline married into House Lannister, lay dormant for four generations, and awakened in this one."

Arthur closed his eyes.

Beside him, Oswell asked softly, "Did Rhaegar know?"

Leon nodded.

"He knew ten years ago. At the tourney in Lannisport. He knew the first time he saw me."

A long silence.

Leon looked at them. "There was one thing Rhaegar said more than anything else: 'The dragon has three heads.'"

"I rescued Rhaenys from King's Landing. The first." He pointed toward the door. "Aegon is across the sea. The second."

He pointed at Jon in the basket. "This is Rhaegar's third."

He looked at the three Kingsguard.

"Rhaegar believed in prophecy all his life, but he's dead."

Leon paused. He concealed the truth about the "three heads."

"If you stay here and die fighting Eddard Stark, who will protect these two children?"

Arthur opened his eyes.

Something was changing in those dark eyes.

The deep blue began to recede, the golden edges expanding, while a bright, almost white point of light gathered at the center.

A new oath.

"Where do you want us to go?" he asked.

Leon looked at him. "Leave Westeros. There's no place for you here anymore. Robert won't spare anyone who supported the Targaryens."

"Where?"

Leon fell silent for a second.

He had not thought it through yet. Or rather, he had considered several directions but had yet to make a final decision.

South? Across the Narrow Sea? The Free Cities?

Arthur looked at him and understood his silence. "You don't know. But you're leaving anyway."

Leon nodded. "Staying in Westeros means death. If we leave, the children still have a chance to live."

Gerold Hightower walked to the window and gazed north. From behind, he was as silent as a stone statue. "I'm old. I can't travel anymore."

He turned and looked at Arthur. "You must live. I'll die."

Arthur tried to speak, but Gerold raised a hand to stop him. "The White Bull of the Kingsguard can die. But those two children need the strongest sword."

He walked up to Leon and looked down at him. "And someone needs to watch over Rhaegar's final choice."

There was no resentment in those old eyes, only a calm that bordered on entrusting something to another. "Rhaegar trusted you. I have no reason not to."

He turned and headed for the stairs.

"Gerold." Arthur's voice was hoarse.

Gerold did not look back. "I'll hold them off. Go."

His back vanished down the stairway.

When Gerold Hightower stepped out of the tower, the morning light broke through the clouds.

He stood in the clearing before the tower, his white cloak snapping in the morning breeze.

His sword was already drawn, its point resting on the ground, both hands folded over the pommel.

It was the standard stance of a knight awaiting battle: composed, calm, without the slightest intent to retreat.

In the distance, seven men approached along the mountain path.

The man at their head was young and solemn, his gray eyes filled with exhaustion and sorrow.

Eddard Stark.

Gerold watched him approach.

He knew who this man was. The Warden of the North's heir, Lyanna's brother, Robert's best friend.

He also knew what would happen next.

But he was not afraid.

He had lived too long already. From the War of the Ninepenny Kings to the Defiance of Duskendale, to the Trident.

He had watched Rhaegar be born, watched Rhaegar grow up, watched Rhaegar die.

Now, at last, he could go to meet them with his honor.

Eddard reined in before him. Seven men followed behind him.

Gerold recognized several of them:

Howland Reed, the Crannogman.

Willam Dustin, the Earl of Barrowton.

Ethan Glover, the heir to Deepwood Motte.

Martyn Cassel, Winterfell's master-at-arms.

Theo Wull, a knight of Torrhen's Square.

Mark Ryswell, the heir to the Rills.

Eddard looked at the old knight. "Seven against one, ser. Yield."

Gerold smiled. "The Kingsguard never kneel."

Eddard frowned. "Where are the other two?"

Gerold did not answer. He merely raised his sword.

"Come."

In the secret passage beneath the tower, Loomis held Rhaenys in his arms.

The little girl huddled in his embrace, and the little black cat huddled in hers, quietly watching everything around it with its black eyes.

Rhaenys neither cried nor fussed. She merely watched quietly.

The passage was narrow, allowing only one person through at a time. Water beaded on the stone walls on either side, and the air was damp and cold.

They stood in single file, waiting in silence.

The sounds of battle came from outside the tower.

From the first battle cry to the last scream, only the time it took an incense stick to burn had passed.

Then silence fell.

Arthur's expression froze for a moment. The knuckles of his sword hand turned white.

Oswell lowered his head and said nothing.

When Eddard pushed open the tower door, he was covered in blood, and blood still dripped from his sword.

His steps faltered and his breathing was ragged, but his gray eyes remained sharp.

He saw Lyanna on the bed.

Her already cold body lay quietly, the faintest trace of a smile lingering on her lips.

His knees buckled, and he sank to the floor.

"Lyanna..."

He reached out and gently touched his sister's cheek. Cold and stiff.

Tears slipped from the corners of his eyes.

Then he heard a voice.

"She passed last night."

Eddard's head snapped up.

Someone sat in the shadows by the window.

Small and frail, with pale violet eyes like two cold gemstones in the dim light.

Leon Lannister.

Eddard's hand went to his sword hilt. "You..."

"Robert's adviser. The Trident, Bell Town. We've met."

Leon rose, walked to the bed, and looked down at Lyanna. "Rhaegar asked me to come."

He picked Jon up and gently set him before Eddard. "Your nephew. Rhaegar's son."

Eddard looked down at the baby. His little wrinkled face was buried in his swaddling, and he slept deeply.

"Lyanna's last wish was for you to take him away. As your bastard. Let him live."

Eddard's hands trembled. "You... why would you save him? You're a Lannister."

Leon looked at him, his pale violet eyes utterly still. "Because of a promise."

Silence.

Eddard sheathed his sword. He reached out, took Jon, and held him in his arms.

The baby stirred, his little mouth parting slightly as he breathed evenly.

"Will you tell anyone?" Eddard asked.

"No. But you have to promise me one thing."

Eddard looked at him.

"You mustn't tell anyone I was here. Especially Robert. Or my father."

Eddard frowned. "You're Tywin's son. If he finds out you came here-"

"He won't," Leon interrupted. "Don't you uphold honor?"

Two people stood before a corpse and a baby.

Wolf and lion reached an understanding in that moment, bound by the same secret.

"...Agreed," Eddard said.

Leon nodded, turned, and headed toward the back of the tower.

"Wait." Eddard's voice came from behind him. "Where are you going?"

Leon did not look back. "Away from Westeros. For now, there's no place for me here."

He took a few steps, then stopped again.

"A word of advice. You should remember what happened to your father and brother. Direwolves must not go south."

With that, he disappeared into the secret passage.

Eddard stood where he was, holding Jon, and did not move for a long time.

When Leon entered the secret passage, Arthur and Oswell were waiting for him.

"Eddard?" Arthur asked.

Leon nodded. "We've finished talking."

Arthur looked at him without pressing. He simply turned and led the way deeper into the passage.

Leon followed.

Behind them, the entrance to the passage was covered again. Darkness swallowed everything.

Then Arthur spoke. "Where next?"

Leon looked at him. "Highgarden first. To find Willas."

Oswell frowned. "Don't you know the Tyrells have already surrendered? Are you walking straight into their net?"

Leon looked at him. "You don't have to come."

Oswell froze for a moment, then smiled bitterly. "Fine. I've nowhere else to go anyway."

"Let's go," Leon said. "We have to get over that mountain before dawn."

Behind them, the Tower of Joy stood silently in the morning light.

Three days later, they encountered a caravan on the edge of the Red Mountains. The spice merchants had come from Dorne and were heading north to King's Landing.

Pudding Face traded a few silver stags for supplies and picked up some news.

"The War of the Usurper is almost over. Robert Baratheon is campaigning against the other royalists. Rumor has it that Lord Tywin Lannister's daughter is going to marry him and become queen."

Leon listened, his face expressionless.

Cersei was going to be queen. Father had finally gotten his wish.

Five days later, they reached the fork outside Nightsong.

Tyrion stepped out of the group and stood before Leon. Sandor followed beside him, leading two horses.

"...Dog and I are going back to Casterly Rock," Tyrion said.

Leon's heart trembled slightly as he looked at him.

"Father will come looking for us. If he finds out we've both run away, he'll send soldiers to the ends of the earth. But if I go back to Casterly Rock and obediently play his 'cursed dwarf heir,' he'll have something to compare you to, and someone to vent his anger on. He won't care so much about where you've gone."

He looked at Leon, a complicated light flickering in his mismatched eyes.

"Besides, I need to stockpile a few things for you over there. Things you can use when you come back."

Leon looked at him for a long time.

Then he held out his hand.

Tyrion clasped it.

Two hands, one long and pale, the other short and strong, gripped each other tightly in the twilight.

"Leon."

"Yes?"

"You know, I've only cried twice in my life."

Leon said nothing.

"The first time was when I was three. Father locked us in a cage and hung us from the castle walls for an entire night. I didn't cry. But Jaime sneaked over and stuffed a blanket into the cage. That was when I cried."

His voice paused.

"The second time was when you came out of the Tower of Joy alive today."

In the twilight, Tyrion's shoulders trembled slightly.

"Do you have any fucking idea how I've spent every night these past few days wondering what I'd do if you died in that tower? What if those three white-cloaked madmen took you for an enemy? What if..."

His voice choked off.

Leon stood still, not moving.

Tyrion drew a deep breath, abruptly shoved Leon away, and struggled up onto his horse.

On that ugly face in profile, something glittered in his mismatched eyes beneath the moonlight. He would not let Leon see his tears, but that light shone brighter than tears.

"I'm not going back to Casterly Rock because I'm afraid of Father hunting us down. I'm going back because I need to stand in front of him. Then I'll gather money for you, connections, ships, every fucking thing. When the day comes that you return, I'll make sure all of Westeros knows-"

He held out a short, thick finger and pointed at Leon.

"My brother, Tyrion Lannister's brother, isn't a curse or a monster. He's a bastard a hundred times cleverer than I am. A bastard greater than fucking Tywin Lannister."

Leon's throat moved.

Tyrion grinned. The grin twisted beyond recognition through his tears, yet it was more genuine than any smile.

"Remember, you owe me a drink, though you've never paid up... Arbor gold, vintage 249. If you dare get yourself killed, whoever does it, I'll throw every army I can muster at destroying him!"

Tyrion's tears finally spilled.

"If you die at sea, I'll jump into the Summer Sea, and even as a ghost, I'll find you and settle the score!"

He jerked his horse around and lashed it hard.

The horse whinnied and charged into the night.

Leon stood where he was, watching that figure grow smaller and smaller.

He did not feel the tears already streaming down his cheeks.

Maester Loomis came over and said softly, "Young master, we should go."

Leon did not move.

He raised his right hand and waved gently in the night wind.

In the distance, that tiny figure raised a hand too, and waved.

Then he disappeared into the twilight.

Leon lowered his hand.

He turned.

Then he saw that Sandor was still there.

The brawny thirteen-year-old had not followed yet. He sat motionless on his horse, facing the direction in which Tyrion had disappeared.

But that was not where he was looking.

He was looking at Thea Marbrand.

Thea stood at the edge of the group, a sword in her hand, her back to everyone. The night wind stirred her hair, like a wisp of gray smoke in the moonlight.

Sandor's lips moved. No sound came out.

His horse took a step forward. Then stopped again.

Thea did not turn.

Sandor opened his mouth, forcing out a few words, his voice as rough as stones grinding together:

"...Your wound."

Thea's shoulders shifted slightly.

"Change the dressing," Sandor added. It was the longest sentence he had ever spoken.

Thea finally turned around.

In the moonlight, her face was expressionless. But something flickered in her eyes.

"I know," she said.

Silence.

Sandor pulled something from inside his clothes-a small cloth bundle, crumpled as though he had been clutching it for a long time. He tossed it toward Thea.

Thea caught it and opened it.

It was a rough stone, ground into a crooked shape. It was just barely recognizable as a dog.

The carving was ugly, but every cut had been made with force.

"...Carved it... that day," Sandor said.

Thea looked down at the stone for a long time.

Then she raised her head and looked at Sandor.

"Get lost, boy," she said.

The corner of Sandor's mouth moved.

It was not a smile. Only a twitch of his facial muscles.

But he nodded.

He turned his horse and rode after Tyrion in the direction he had disappeared.

The hoofbeats faded into the distance.

Thea stood motionless, holding the stone.

Leon walked over and stood beside her.

"Young master," Thea said very softly, "let's go."

Leon said nothing.

He merely raised his head and looked at the sky.

A shooting star streaked across the night sky, vanishing in an instant.

He turned, and the group headed north.

Thea followed behind.

She held the stone tightly in her palm, pressed against the old scar.

It was very warm.