Chapter Text
Starfall bore witness once more to the light that graced Dorne. They were the keepers of the dawn, the bringers of the first light upon the world they inhabited. In this land, fate had long been etched among the stars, and here, an heir was bound to step forward—toward the throne that had awaited its rightful master for far too long.
Lord Seryn Dayne stood before the silent blade resting in its place—a legacy untouched by mortal hands for a hundred years. Dawn, the legendary sword, could only be wielded by those deemed worthy of the title Sword of the Morning. His great-grandfather had been the last to brandish it in battle, and since then, none had proven themselves worthy of grasping the light that had fallen from the heavens.
Footsteps echoed through the chamber—soft, yet certain. A young man entered the hall, carrying with him an undeniable grace. His black golden hair, long enough to reach his waist, gleamed under the golden rays that filtered through the high windows of the keep. The sigil of House Dayne adorned his chest, the deep violet fabric draping over him in a manner both regal and effortless. With a measured movement, he bowed before his father, Lord Seryn of Starfall.
“Lord Seryn,” his voice was deep, steady—though within, he did not feel as composed.
Seryn’s lips curved in a faint smile. “My son.”
Their gazes met—Seryn’s pale lilac eyes reflecting back the deeper, almost amethyst hue of his son’s. The Hightower blood ran strong in Gawin, more so than in Seryn himself. His own eyes were softer, a muted lavender tinged with silver, like the last traces of twilight before nightfall.
And yet, despite the differences in their coloring, there was the same sharpness behind their gaze—the same understanding of the world’s workings, the same weight of fate pressing upon their lineage.
At last, Lord Seryn spoke. “You are seventeen now… Upon your eighteenth nameday, you shall wed.”
Gawin straightened slightly but held his silence.
“You must father an heir as soon as you are able,” his father continued, his voice heavier now. “I shall not live long, and you know well the state of my health.”
Gawin Dayne. Second son of House Dayne. Heir to two of the most ancient bloodlines in Westeros. His lineage was an unshakable force—Dayne, with the pride of Starfall and its fabled sword, and Hightower, with its ties to the Citadel and the wisdom that had shaped civilizations.
And yet, even that legacy could not stand against the tides of a greater fate.
The world now trembled under the shadow of an unwanted king. Before the Dance of the Dragons, the Targaryens had been ruled by one who was never meant to be—a son of Maegor the Cruel, raised among the ruins of blood and fire.
Lord Seryn regarded his son with an unreadable expression.
“In the presence of Joss Targaryen—blood of the dragon, son of fire and shadow, bearer of the ancient flame, last fury of Queen Visenya—the will of the dragon shall not be denied.”
Gawin lifted his chin slightly, listening.
“He has ruled these past three years,” Lord Seryn went on. “Still young, yet already he has wed his own sister. What do you know of him?”
Gawin hesitated. He was unsure how to answer.
“He… is the son of Maegor the Cruel,” he said at last. “The only child born of his blood, acknowledged as a true Targaryen while the rest of Maegor’s bastards perished. He is hated by the old, feared by the new. Fire without a master. Shadow behind the flame. The last wrath of Queen Visenya.”
He paused, uncertain of how to continue.
Lord Seryn studied him for a long moment before offering a small, knowing smile.
“You have only heard the worst of him, have you not?” he asked.
Gawin bit his lip, uncertain whether to agree or deny it.
“Does the world not know of his cruelty?” he finally said. “They call him a hunter of blood—a man without mercy.”
Lord Seryn sighed, turning his gaze toward their family’s sword.
“Aye, that is true.” He nodded slowly. “But they have always been thus.”
Silence fell between them.
Dawn, the blade forged from the light of fallen stars, remained where it was—untouched, unmoving.
As though it, too, waited for one truly worthy to wield it once more.
⸻
“You are the only one who may wield this sword,” Lord Seryn declared, his voice steady, almost like a royal decree.
Yet Gawin shook his head, refusing to accept those words.
“I have never been able to wield it fully,” he murmured. His gaze lingered upon the sword, uncertain. “But I was the last to cleanse its steel.”
Lord Seryn regarded him with unwavering eyes before exhaling deeply.
“The signs have appeared tonight,” he said. “And thus, the sword has chosen you.”
Gawin remained silent, though unease stirred within him. The chamber was filled with relics of House Dayne’s legacy, yet the sword before him felt different. There was something inexplicable about it—an unseen force, subtle yet undeniable.
Then, his father spoke once more, and his words struck deeper than the steel itself.
“And yet… there is something amiss.”
Gawin furrowed his brows. “Amiss?”
Lord Seryn gave a slow nod. He inhaled, as though weighing his next words carefully.
“The Unwanted King is coming.”
Gawin stiffened. He lifted his gaze, eyes filled with quiet confusion.
“The Unwanted King?” his voice was barely above a whisper.
The air between them grew still, as though even the night breeze dared not stir.
Lord Seryn knew well that this was no fortune to celebrate.
For his second son, the newly anointed Sword of the Morning, had been chosen by fate.
And fate was seldom kind.