He dreamt an old dream, of three knight in white cloaks, and a tower long fallen, and Lyanna in her bed of blood.

In the dream his friends rode with him, as they had in life. Proud Martyn Cassel, Jory's father; faithful Theo Wull; Ser Mark Ryswell, soft of speech and gentle of heart; the crannogman, Howland Reed; Lord Dustin on his great red stallion; and, Lohgun, the Mad Badger from beyond the Wall. Ned had known their faces as well as he knew his own once, but the years leech at a man's memories, even those he has vowed never to forget. In the dream they were only shadows, grey wraiths on horses made of mist.

They were seven, facing three. In the dream as it had been in life. Yet these were no ordinary three. They waited before the round tower, the red mountains of Dorne at their backs, their white cloaks blowing in the wind. And these were no shadows, their faces burned clear, even now. Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, had a sad smile on his lips. The hilt of the great sword Dawn poked over his right shoulder. Ser Oswell Whent was on one knee, sharpening his blade with a whetstone. Between them stood fierce old Ser Gerold Hightower, the White Bull, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard.

Ned conversed briefly with the three gallant knights. They refused to bend their knees and depart from the old order, left destroyed forever by blood and death at the Trident and King's Landing. "We swore a vow," explained old Ser Gerold.

Ned's wraiths moved up beside him, with shadow swords in hand. They were seven against three.

"And now it begins," said Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning. He unsheathed Dawn and held it with both hands. The blade was pale as milkglass, alive with light.

"No," Lohgun snarled, furor mounting in his voice. "Now it ends, bub!" The wraiths and the shining knights from the Age of Heroes rushed together in steel and violence. Blades crashed on blades or scrapped over armor. The shadows grunted, swore, and shouted. But Ned only heard Lyanna's cry across a blood streaked sky, "Eddard!"

He dodged under Arthur Dayne's powerful two handed swing, lashing out one handed with Ice to cut through links of mail and leave a thin red line across the Sword of Morning's side. Yet the powerful blow connected, crushing the shield and breaking the arm of Theo Wull, who'd played with him as a child in the crypts below Winterfell. The momentum of both brutal strokes swept the two combatants, one still barely a teen and the other a full man at eight and twenty, apart.

"Hells' spawn!" cried the Black Bat of Harrenhal, finding that Lohgun fought not with a sword but six deadly daggers, each one sharp as Valyrian steel. The air filled with the incessant tink of Ser Oswell's rapid parries as the Mad Badger drove relentlessly forward, heedless of the danger and pain, to come to arm's length with the Kingsguard so he could disembowel him. Ser Oswell hinted left but spun right, turning completely around, his white cloak shredded by Lohgun's claws. But the move put him just to the side the wildling and his long sword bit dip into the hairy man's neck, dropping him to the grassy sward, vast gushes of scarlet staining the green.

Ice rang off Dawn once, twice, thrice, then movement to Eddard's periphery drew the attention of the finest Knight in the Seven Kingdoms toward other danger. Howland Reed poked at Arthur Dayne's side with the three prongs of his trident, trying to entangle the blade forged from a fallen star. But to no avail, for the Kingsguard handled his mighty two handed sword with the swiftness of of a stiletto. Two quick slashes and the little crannogman held nothing more than a broken stick. A third slash removed the forearm holding the useless staff. Eddard cried "Havoc," and charged to avenge his bonny, joking friend.

William shouted in triumph. Gerold Hightower's sword stuck a moment in Mark Ryswell's chest, just a fraction second long enough for the Master of Barrowton to skewer the old Ser's kidney. The pain so intense the Lord Commander dropped his own blade and fell to the well churned ground.

Oswell Whent mimicked the cry as Martyn met his end, stubbornly standing over the fallen form of Lohgun, whom he had tried to teach the art of the blade until the Mad Badger's more innate talents had surfaced. Dear Theo launched himself with only one sound arm at the Black Bat. He lasted only as long as it took William Dustin to join the fray before a mortal slash to his thigh drained out his life's blood in twenty rapid beats of crimson.

All Eddard's youthful speed, strength from years of constant practice, and the cold cunning he had learned in the application of death the last six months proved helpless against the Sword of Morning. Dawn beat down Ice again and again, nicking and cutting the Lord of Winterfell again and again. Sweat dampened Eddard's eyes, his arms burned from the effort of keeping his sword up, his chest heaved desperate for more air. Ashara's brother feinted, feinted, and finally swung a hammer stroke of a blow which Ice barely met, only to fly from his grip. "Noooooo!" Eddard shouted, the final flash of Dawn filling his eyes.

"Nooooooo!" screamed Lohgun, flying through the air. Half way to his target, Arthur Dayne proved his unparalleled swordsmanship and altered the trajectory of Dawn. The Mad Badger pushed out a clawed hand to intercept the strike. Crash! The star forged metal slashed clean through the tip of one claw and broke a second in half. Snickt! The three daggers protruding from the back of Lohgun's other hand punctured through the steel breastplate of the Sword of Dawn and tore apart his magnificent heart.

Eddard shuddered. The wildling howled, raising high the hand with shattered claws as an offering to the old Gods. Lord Dustin knelt over the unconscious body of the now maimed Howland Reed, bandaging the stump of the little crannogman's arm. The three lived. He rose to his feet and staggered into the Tower of Joy. Lyanna lived too, but for only a few hours more.

"Lord Eddard," Lyanna called again.

"I promise," he whispered. "Lya, I promise …"

"Lord Eddard," a man echoed from the dark.

Groaning, Eddard Stark opened his eyes. Moonlight streamed through the tall windows of the Tower of the Hand.