The desert wind whispered like a phantom across the Dornish hills. Amidst crumbling stone and ancient sand, the Tower of Joy loomed—lonely, solemn, and drenched in tension.
Seven men rode toward it on weary horses. Their eyes were grim. Their blades sharp. And at their center was Eddard Stark, clad in wolf-grey armor, ice-blue eyes narrowed with sorrow and resolve.
> "I dreamt of this tower once," whispered Lord Stark as they approached. "A dream of blood and sorrow."
At the foot of the tower stood three knights—silent, still, and radiant in white.
Ser Gerold Hightower, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard.
Ser Oswell Whent, dark-helmed and calm.
And in front of them, the deadliest of them all—
> Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, wielding the gleaming greatsword Dawn, forged from the heart of a fallen star.
Eddard stepped forward. "I looked for you on the Trident, Ser Arthur."
The white knight replied softly, "We were not there. We swore a vow."
Then steel sang.
No more words. No more diplomacy. No more time.
The clash was sudden and brutal.
Six northern warriors rushed forward while Ser Arthur, Ser Oswell, and Ser Gerold exploded into graceful, devastating motion. The Kingsguard danced like lightning. Men screamed. Blades flashed red.
And atop the broken stones… Köinzell watched.
---
He stood beneath moonlight, cloak billowing, pale hair whipping in the desert wind. His golden elven eyes shimmered with curiosity and a tinge of war-born excitement.
> "So this is the legendary Sword of the Morning."
Even in his world, men like Arthur Dayne would be considered monsters.
And yet…
He saw it.
Gaps.
Tiny inefficiencies. Microsecond delays. Opportunities.
They were masters by this world's standards—but Köinzell was born and forged in a realm of higher blades and darker truths.
> "If I don't act now, Lyanna Stark dies… and the future I know is destroyed."
With a deep breath, Köinzell leapt from the crumbling balcony, cloak flaring like raven wings.
He hit the ground silently behind Ser Oswell.
> "—Huh?!" the knight spun, but it was too late.
Köinzell's sword Aetherbane Fang was already drawn—whispering, humming, alive.
> "Null Eclipse — activate."
A sudden pulse of black and indigo surged from the blade.
A dome of silence expanded outward—5 meters of absolute magical negation. The air crackled. Even Dawn's radiant light flickered momentarily.
The Kingsguard felt it—a chill like the breath of a forgotten god.
> "What sorcery—?" Ser Gerold tried to speak, but Köinzell was already moving.
He blurred like a shadow, feet barely touching stone.
One slash—
> SLASH.
Ser Oswell Whent's sword arm flew off in a burst of crimson light. He screamed and fell, blood soaking the sand.
Two slashes—
> CRACK.
A pulse of Soulbreak shot into Gerold Hightower's chest, paralyzing his heart for two seconds—just long enough for Eddard to drive his sword through the Lord Commander's side.
> "Seven hells—WHO IS THAT?!" shouted Howland Reed as he barely dodged Arthur Dayne's devastating swing.
Arthur backed up, scanning the stranger with narrowed eyes.
> "You… are not of Westeros."
Köinzell's face remained cold and unreadable.
> "Neither are you… worthy of that title."