When Eddard Stark returned to Winterfell from the South, he did not come alone.
He rode in silence, carrying not one infant, but two.
One — a boy with dark eyes and solemn features — was his bastard, born of war and whispered scandal.
The other — a girl with dark hair and deep, haunting purple eyes — was his sister Lyanna's child. The last legacy of a dead prince, and a promise he would die before breaking.
Catelyn's face paled when she saw them. "Two?" she whispered. "Ned... you said—"
"I could not leave her child," he said simply. "She's all that remains of Lyanna. I made her a promise. This... this girl is not mine by sin, but by blood. By honor."
Catelyn's mouth trembled. Her eyes moved to the boy first — Jon, Ned called him — then to the girl. She was quiet. Watching.
Ned stepped closer. "Catelyn... I know what I ask. But I cannot let her grow up hunted. She must be protected. Loved. Hidden."
"And what of the boy?" she asked tightly.
"Jon is my bastard," Ned said, voice low and steady. "But the girl... I want to raise her as ours. As your daughter. As Robb's twin. They are near in age — she won't remember. We'll say they were born together."
Catelyn hesitated. "She's not yours. But she's... family."
"She's Lyanna's," Ned said. "That makes her ours."
A long pause. Then, finally, Catelyn exhaled. "We'll say they were twins. Robb and Alyssa."
She looked again at Jon, her expression hardening. "But I will not raise your bastard, Ned. I will not treat him as one of mine. I will tolerate him for the sake of your honor, but do not ask me to open my heart to him."
Ned's jaw tightened, his voice quiet but resolute. "You don't have to love him, Cat. I won't ask that of you. But he is still my blood. He's innocent in all of this, and I will not cast him aside. Let him have a roof over his head, a name, a place to grow. I owe him that much."
He looked down at Jon, swaddled and silent. "I will bear your coldness, your silence, if I must... but I will not abandon him. Not after everything I've done."
Catelyn's gaze did not soften. "Then let it be known — the boy will always be a Snow. He will not be legitimized. He will not train alongside Robb, Alyssa, or any other trueborn children we may have. Not under the same roof, not as an equal. If he is to remain in this house, he remains separate. A reminder of your choices — not mine."
Ned's expression hardened. "You may call him a reminder, but I will not treat him like a mistake. He will have a place here — his place. He will be fed, clothed, and trained. Perhaps not with Robb and Alyssa, but I will not let him grow up shamed and bitter for sins he did not commit. I will raise him to be honorable, even if the world refuses to see him as more than a bastard."
Catelyn's lips pressed into a thin line. "And yet that's what he is — a bastard. He will always be a bastard, Ned. No name you give him, no sword in his hand, will ever change that. He is a walking, breathing reminder of betrayal... one I must endure every day in my own home."
Ned's eyes darkened, and his voice softened with guilt. "I understand, Cat. I've wronged you, and for that I am sorry. My betrayal is not something I expect you to forget — nor forgive. But the boy is here, and I cannot turn my back on him."
He let out a long breath. "When he comes of age, I will send him to the Wall to take the black. He will have a purpose, a place, far from here. But until then, he stays — and I will see to his care."
Catelyn still looked away, her mouth a tight line, but she gave a small nod. "Very well." Her voice was cool, but resigned. "But I will hold you to that promise, Ned."
She turned her eyes to the large wooden chest Ned had carried in with him, resting near the hearth. "And what's in that? You brought it from the South."
Ned followed her gaze. "Things Rhaegar meant for his child. His daughter." His voice was low, almost reverent. "Three fossilized dragon eggs, two Valyrian steel daggers, and several chests filled with gold dragons. Wealth, weapons, and legacy — all meant to protect her future."
Catelyn's eyes narrowed slightly, a mix of apprehension and curiosity. "And what is the babe's true name, Ned? Surely not 'Alyssa' if she was meant to be hidden."
Ned hesitated, then whispered, "Her true name is Visenya, third of her name. Rhaegar chose it himself, after the warrior queen. But here... she is Alyssa Stark. That is how she must be known."
Catelyn let out a slow breath, her shoulders tense. "Visenya... fitting, I suppose." She stood, her eyes lingering on the baby girl. "I'll take her to be with Robb. She should grow beside the boy she'll call her twin."
Ned nodded, watching as Catelyn carefully lifted the child into her arms, her movements stiff but controlled. As she left the room, he turned back to Jon, still swaddled and silent.
There was much to prepare.
Years Later...
Alyssa Stark was only two years old when it happened — when the memories came flooding back.
She had been sitting in the nursery, playing with a wooden direwolf, when something snapped behind her eyes. A vision. A scream. A memory. It hit her like wildfire surging through her tiny body — images of another life, another world. Hers.
Christina Benton. A woman who had loved Daenerys Targaryen from the other side of a screen. Who had cursed Jon Snow's name. Who had chosen this life — this body — without knowing it would come with so much weight.
She gasped. Cried. The old nan had thought it was a tantrum. But it wasn't. It was the day Christina Benton died forever — and Alyssa Stark, rightful daughter of fire and chaos, awoke fully. Now that she remembered, there was much to do — and much to plan — for the future.
By the time she was seven, Alyssa Stark moved like shadow across the frost-slick stones of the Winterfell courtyard, her breath curling in the cold morning air, Robb always a step beside her. Their younger siblings were too young to follow the 2 eldest as Sansa was three, Arya had just turned one, and baby Bran was a newborn swaddled in the tower nursery.
Compared to her siblings, Alyssa was something else entirely — a Stark by name, but not truly like the others. Not really and no one knew except their mother and father.
Though it wasn't ladylike, Alyssa trained beside Robb with sword and bow, her feet swift and strikes precise. She demanded to spar, to hunt, to bleed — to be strong. And while Robb trained with steel, Alyssa's magic whispered beneath her skin. Not the magic of the North — not old gods or weirwood dreams — but something older, wilder. Chaos.
And so, in secret, she trained. In the quiet corners of the godswood or locked away in shadowed halls, Alyssa practiced the sensations beneath her skin — coaxing flame from her fingertips, bending air with her breath, and trying to push thoughts just gently enough into the minds of those around her. Slowly. Quietly. Safely.
No one could know. Not yet.
She could feel the emotions of others like threads weaving through her chest — love, sorrow, fear, and lies. But more than that, Alyssa began to test her reality-bending magic in secret, focusing it not on the physical world but on memory — pulling fragments of her old life to the surface like glimmers from a mirror. She willed herself to remember facts, histories, inventions, anything that might help her one day reshape the North: self-sufficiency, trade, medicine, strategy, power. Slowly, bit by bit, she built a mental archive — a plan for a better future, drawn from a world that no longer existed.
Visions came in her sleep — not just distant images, but dreams she felt. A pale woman with silver hair and violet eyes, walking through fire. Sometimes, they would speak — share stories, laughter, or simply sit in silence beside a dragon's warmth. Alyssa, still a child, believed it was just her imagination. A dream world conjured from longing. But every night, the girl with silver hair was there — and she always called her by name: "Alyssa..."
She would wake breathless. Changed.
And always... she felt drawn south. Toward warmth. Toward flame. Toward her.
Daenerys.
Though she didn't know how, Alyssa was sure of it: their paths would meet.
She would find her.
And this time, Daenerys Stormborn would not die.