He had told himself to expect a tomb. He had marched up to the foot of the tower with a cold dread settled deep in his bones, certain he had come only to collect his sister's body. And yet, his heart, that foolish, traitorous thing, had still searched for a sign of life, had listened for a familiar shout of defiance on the wind. The silence that greeted him was the first thing Ned noted. It was a profound, unnatural quiet, a silence that felt more like a grave than a prison.
He dismounted, his boots crunching on the dry soil. His six companions fanned out behind him, their hands resting on the pommels of their swords. And then, from the tower's entrance, they emerged.
Three ghosts in white enamel.
Ser Gerold Hightower, the White Bull, his face grim under a helm of snow-white steel. Ser Oswell Whent, his helm's black bat wings a stark contrast to his cloak. And Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, a sad smile playing on his lips. Dawn was strapped to his back, its pale blade seeming to drink the harsh sunlight.
They were legends. He had come here expecting a fight, but seeing them arrayed before him, the reality of it settled in his gut like a stone.
"I looked for you on the Trident," Ned said, his voice a dry rasp.
"We were not there," Ser Gerold answered.
"Woe to the Usurper if we had been," said Ser Oswell.
"When King's Landing fell, Ser Jaime slew your king with a golden sword," Ned continued, his eyes locked on the Lord Commander. "I wonder where you were then."
"Far away," Ser Gerold said. "Or Aerys would yet sit the Iron Throne, and our false brother would burn in seven hells."
"I came for my sister," Ned said, trying to keep the desperation from his voice.
"She is here," Ser Arthur said, his voice full of a strange sorrow.
Ned's patience, already worn thin by war and grief, finally snapped. "Your Prince is dead. Your King is dead. Your duty is done. Lay down your swords."
Ser Arthur's sad smile did not waver. "The Kingsguard does not flee."
"Flee? From what?" Ned demanded, gesturing to the desolate landscape. "The war is over! Rhaegar is gone!"
"We swore a vow," Ser Gerold Hightower said, his voice like the grinding of stones. It was the simplest of truths, and the most absolute.
The dread in Ned's stomach coiled tighter. It was this honour, this unbreakable devotion, that made no sense. "A vow to whom? A dead man?"
For the first time, a flicker of profound grief crossed Arthur Dayne's face. "Our Prince commanded us to stay. He trusted us to guard what was most precious to him."
The words struck Ned with the force of a physical blow. What was most precious to him. Not a captive. Not a stolen prize. The implication was a chasm opening at his feet. They were not gaolers. They were protectors. They were standing their last watch, over a legacy he had not known existed.
He drew his sword. His companions did the same, the sound of steel on leather a sharp, definitive sound in the crushing silence.
"This is madness," Ned pleaded, his voice cracking with the strain of his grief, his expression one of pure heartache. "By the old gods, Arthur, the war is over."
Ser Arthur Dayne's sad smile finally faded, replaced by an expression of profound, weary duty. His hand moved to the hilt of Dawn, not with aggression, but with a terrible finality. "The war is never over, Lord Stark," he said, his voice low and sorrowful as he unsheathed the legendary blade. Its pale light shimmered, impossibly bright in the Dornish sun. "Only the players change."
There was no reaching them. A profound sadness washed over Ned as he raised his own Valyrian steel, the dark, rippled metal a stark contrast to Dawn's ethereal glow. It was a tragedy of honour, a fight that no one could truly win. He met Arthur's gaze across the small courtyard, seeing not an enemy, but a mirror of his own cursed duty.
He took a step forward, preparing for the charge, for the death of good men, for the final, bloody act of this cursed rebellion.
"STOP!"
The voice was thin, a woman's cry, but it cut through the tension like a blade. It came from above.
Ned's head snapped up. All ten men in the courtyard froze, their eyes drawn to the single stone balcony high on the tower wall.
There, leaning heavily on the railing, was a wraith in a white shift. Her dark hair was a tangled mess, her face as pale as winter snow. It was his sister, but she was a shadow of the fierce, laughing girl he remembered. She looked fragile enough for the wind to carry away. A woman stood behind her, her arms wrapped around Lyanna's waist, holding her steady.
Lyanna's fierce grey eyes, clouded with pain, found his.
"Ned?" she cried out, her voice breaking. "No more fighting. Please..."
Then her eyes rolled back into her head, and she collapsed, a limp weight in the arms of her attendant.
"Lya!"
The name was torn from his throat, a raw shout of pure terror. The standoff was shattered. The promise of battle evaporated, replaced by a single, shared, horrified concern. He saw the anguish on Arthur Dayne's face, the legendary calm broken by fear.
Ned didn't think. He ran. He sprinted for the tower's entrance, the iron studs of his boots skidding on the loose rock, his heart hammering against his ribs. The Kingsguard, their swords still in hand, simply watched him go.
He took the winding stairs two at a time, his companions close behind. At the top of the tower, he burst into a circular chamber. The air was close, heavy with the scent of fever, blood, and winter roses. The room was clean, the linens on the large bed fresh, but a feeling of profound sickness lingered.
Lyanna lay in the center of the bed, her dark hair spread like ink on the white pillows. The handmaiden, a Dornish woman whose face was stained with tears, was dabbing her brow with a cool cloth. By the bed, in a small wooden cot, lay a bundle of swaddling clothes.
Ned crossed the room in three strides, falling to his knees beside his sister. He took her hand. It was hot, terrifyingly hot, and her skin was nearly translucent.
"Lya," he whispered, his voice choked with grief.
Her eyes fluttered open. They were still his sister's eyes, the fierce grey of a winter storm, but they were clouded with pain and exhaustion. "Ned," she breathed, a faint smile touching her lips. "You came."
"I'm here," he said, squeezing her hand. "I'm here, Lya."
Her gaze drifted to the cot. "He is beautiful, isn't he?"
Ned looked. He saw a tuft of dark hair, a small, sleeping face. The sight was a dagger in his heart. For this, for a bastard boy, she had thrown the world into chaos. For this, his father and brother had died.
Lyanna must have seen the agony in his face. Her grip on his hand tightened with a surprising strength. "No, Ned. Not like that. He is no bastard." Her voice was a fierce, desperate whisper. "We were wed. Before the old gods."
Ned stared, his mind reeling.
"Rhaegar... he did not set Elia aside," she continued, her breath coming in ragged gasps. "The dragon has three heads. An old law... for the dragonlords... a second wife."
It was madness. A fantasy. But then Ser Gerold Hightower stepped forward from the shadows of the room. In his gauntleted hands, he held a rolled parchment, sealed with the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen.
"Lord Stark," the Lord Commander said, his voice heavy with solemn duty. "This is Prince Rhaegar's will, which we are sworn to uphold. It is witnessed and notarized by the High Septon himself, who died in the sacking. And by Princess Elia of Dorne. We are its guardians."
He handed the parchment to Ned. With trembling hands, Ned broke the seal. He saw not a simple note, but a royal decree. It was a marriage pact, written in Rhaegar's elegant script. It cited the precedent of Aegon the Conqueror and the Doctrine of Exceptionalism. It declared his union to Lyanna Stark legitimate in the eyes of gods and men. And at the bottom, below the signatures of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark, were a half-dozen more:
Elia Martell, Princess of Dorne.The High Septon.Ser Arthur Dayne.Ser Oswell Whent.Lord Commander Gerold Hightower.
The truth of it was not just a blow; it was a physical weight, settling in his soul. The pact was politically worthless now, a secret decree from a dead regime, but it was the undeniable truth. He looked from the parchment to the sleeping baby. Not a bastard. A prince. Another legitimate son. A child Robert would want dead more than any other.
Lyanna's eyes were pleading with him now, the fever taking what was left of her strength. "His name... is Jaehaerys," she whispered. "You have to protect him. Robert will kill him, you know he will. You have to protect my son. Promise me, Ned." Her voice was fading, her grip weakening. "Promise me."
He looked at his dying sister, at the infant prince who was his own blood, and at the proof of a truth that could start another war. He saw the path that lay before him, a long, lonely road of lies and secrets. He saw the cost of honour.
"I promise," Ned said, his voice breaking. "I promise, Lya."
A single tear rolled down her cheek. A faint, peaceful smile touched her lips. And then, the fire in her winter eyes went out.
The silence that followed was absolute. He was still kneeling there, holding his sister's cooling hand, when Ser Arthur Dayne placed a hand on his shoulder.
"She is at peace, my lord," the Sword of the Morning said, his own voice thick with grief.
Ned looked up at the three greatest knights in the realm. Their watch was over, yet their duty remained. They renewed their vows then and there, quietly, to the sleeping infant in the cot. To their king.
And in that room of death and roses, the great lie was born.
"He will be my bastard," Ned said, the words tasting like ash in his mouth. "I will name him Jon. Jon Snow. It is the only way."
"No." The word was sharp, spoken with a fierce, quiet anger. It was Ser Arthur Dayne. His face was a mask of anguish and outrage. "A bastard's name? For the son of Rhaegar Targaryen? For our King? The dishonor to his blood cannot be suffered."
"Then he will die," Ned said, his voice cold and hard as northern iron. He rose to his feet, facing the legendary knight. "Do you think Robert will care for this parchment? I was there, Ser. I saw what was left of Rhaenys and Aegon. I heard my friend, my brother, call them 'dragonspawn' and laugh. Is that the fate you want for him? An honorable death in a cradle?"
Ser Arthur flinched as if struck.
"Our duty is to the king's life," Ser Gerold Hightower said, his old voice cutting through the tension. The Lord Commander looked from Arthur to Ned, his gaze pragmatic and weary. "Not his name. An honorable death is no use to the dynasty. Lord Stark is right. It is a bitter choice, but it is the only one."
The Sword of the Morning looked from his commander to the sleeping infant, his shoulders slumping in defeat. The fight was gone, replaced by a profound, tragic acceptance. "The Usurper will demand our heads or our service," he said, his voice hollow.
"You will offer your service," Ned commanded. "A public disgrace is a small price to pay to guard your king."
The Kingsguard looked at each other, their faces grim. They understood the part they had to play in the great lie.
With the pact made, Ned turned to the six men who had ridden with him to the end of the world. Howland Reed, William Dustin, Martyn Cassel, Theo Wull, Ethan Glover, and Ser Mark Ryswell. His friends. His bannermen. They had followed him into this room of secrets and sorrow, and their faces were a mixture of awe, horror, and dawning understanding.
He did not stand before them as their liege lord. He was a broken man, a brother in mourning. He fell to one knee.
"The world will not know the truth of what happened here," he said, his voice raw with grief. "They will remember my sister's name only in whispers, as the woman whose folly started a war. But you... you have seen it. This boy is all that is left of her. He is my blood. My sister's blood. I have promised to protect him, to shield him from a king's wrath. I will take him home, and I will name him my own. I will bear the shame of it. But I cannot bear this burden alone. I am asking you, as my friends, as men of the North who loved her... help me keep my promise. Help me save my sister's son. Swear to me, on your honor, that what you have seen in this room dies with us here today."
One by one, they knelt with him on the stone floor, a circle of Northern honor around their grieving lord. Howland Reed, his closest friend, spoke for them all, his voice thick with emotion. "To the end, my lord. We swear it."
Ned finally walked to the cot. He looked down at the sleeping child. His nephew. His king. He reached down and gently brushed the hair from the infant's brow. The baby stirred, his eyes fluttering open.
They were grey. Stark grey. A small, impossible mercy.
He had lost a sister. He had gained a son. He had made a promise. And the Starks of Winterfell always kept their promises. Even the ones that would cost them everything.
Author's Note:
Hey everyone, Rambo_Tara here! 👋
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