The Room at the Top of the World
The stairs of the Tower of Joy spiraled upward, a narrow throat of stone that seemed to swallow the light. Ned climbed them slowly. Every step was heavy, not with fatigue, but with dread.
He had fought armies. He had faced the Mountain. He had dismantled the Kingsguard. But this—walking through a wooden door to see his little sister—felt like the hardest thing he had ever done.
He reached the landing. The door was heavy oak, banded with iron. He pushed it open.
The room was circular, dominated by a large window that looked out over the Red Mountains. The air inside was thick, smelling of lavender, old rushes, and the metallic tang of fear.
A maid servant stood by the window, wringing her hands. When she saw Ned—blood-spattered, grim-faced, carrying a sword that looked like it could cleave the world—she let out a small squeak and backed against the wall.
But Ned ignored her. His eyes were fixed on the bed.
Lyanna Stark lay there.
She looked... small.
In Ned's memory, Lyanna was a force of nature. She was the girl who rode like a centaur, who poured wine over Benjen's head at feasts, who laughed louder than anyone in Winterfell. She was wild beauty and iron will.
The woman in the bed was a ghost of that girl. Her face was gaunt, her cheekbones sharp enough to cut. Her skin was pale, save for the fever-flush high on her cheeks. Her belly was swollen, a mound of life beneath the thin linen sheet.
She was awake. Her grey eyes—Stark eyes—were fixed on the door.
When she saw him, her breath hitched.
"Ned?" she whispered. Her voice was thin, a dry leaf scraping on stone.
Ned crossed the room in three long strides. He dropped to his knees beside the bed, Ice clattering to the floor forgotten.
"I'm here, Lya," he choked out. "I'm here."
Lyanna looked at him, really looked at him, as if trying to confirm he wasn't a fever dream. She saw the grief in his face, the lines that war had carved there.
Her face crumbled.
"Ned," she sobbed. "I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry."
The tears came then, a flood that had been held back for months. She tried to sit up, reaching for him, but she was too weak. Ned leaned in, wrapping his arms around her carefully, mindful of the child. She buried her face in his shoulder, weeping with the raw, ugly intensity of a child who has broken something precious.
"Father," she gasped between sobs. "Brandon. It's my fault. It's all my fault."
"Shhh," Ned soothed, stroking her hair. It was matted and sweaty. "No. No, it isn't."
"It is!" she cried, clutching his cloak. "I left. I didn't tell anyone. I thought... I thought I could just write a letter later. And then Aerys... and Brandon..."
"Listen to me," Ned said, pulling back gently so he could look her in the eye. He used a sliver of the Force, projecting calm, wrapping her hysteria in a blanket of warmth. "It was not your fault that the King was mad. It was not your fault that Brandon was hot-headed. It was a tragedy of errors, Lya. Everyone played a part."
He wiped a tear from her cheek with his thumb.
"We failed you, too. Father tried to sell you to Robert like a broodmare. We didn't listen when you said you didn't want him. We didn't understand your heart. And yes, you should have told us. You should have trusted us. But we are here now."
"They're dead," Lyanna whispered, the guilt eating her alive. "Because of me."
"They are dead," Ned agreed softly. "We can grieve for them. We will grieve for them for the rest of our lives. But we cannot bring them back. We have to look forward. For you. For the child."
Lyanna shuddered. She looked down at her stomach with a complicated expression. Fear? Love? Resentment? It was a tangle of emotions Ned couldn't quite read.
"The child," she murmured.
She leaned back against the pillows, the crying jag passing, leaving her exhausted. The maid, sensing the danger had passed, crept forward with a cup of water. Ned took it and held it to Lyanna's lips. She drank greedily.
"Tell me," Ned said quietly, setting the cup down. "Tell me what happened. The truth. Not the songs Robert sings."
Lyanna laughed, a weak, bitter sound. "Robert's songs. He thinks Rhaegar kidnapped me at swordpoint, doesn't he? That I was screaming for help?"
"He does."
"I went willingly," Lyanna admitted, staring at the ceiling. "At first."
"At first?"
"It started at Harrenhal," she said, her eyes drifting back to the past. "The Tourney. You remember?"
"I remember," Ned said. "The Knight of the Laughing Tree."
Lyanna smiled faintly. "That was me."
Ned blinked. "You?"
"I wanted to teach those squires a lesson," she said, a spark of the old Wolf Blood flaring. "For Howland. They beat him. So I found some mismatched armor. I painted the shield. I rode against them."
"And you won," Ned said, impressed despite himself. "But... the King sent Rhaegar to find the mystery knight."
"He found me," Lyanna said. "I was hiding in the woods, trying to get the armor off. He found me half-dressed, struggling with a gorget."
She closed her eyes.
"I thought he would arrest me. Take me to his father. Instead... he laughed. He said I was the bravest thing he'd ever seen. He helped me out of the armor. He sat with me and we talked. Not about crowns or kingdoms. About songs. About freedom."
"He charmed you," Ned said.
"He listened to me," Lyanna corrected. "Robert never listened. Robert looked at me and saw a trophy. Rhaegar looked at me and saw... me."
"So you ran away with him."
"He wrote to me. After the tourney. He told me he couldn't stop thinking about me. He told me Elia was sickly, that she couldn't give him another child, that their marriage was political ash. He promised me a life where I wouldn't be just a Lady in a castle. He promised we would be free."
Her face darkened. The fond memory twisted into something uglier.
"We married," she whispered. "Before a weirwood tree. He said he wanted it done right, by my gods and his."
"And then?" Ned asked.
"Then... the songs stopped," Lyanna said. Her voice went cold. "And the prophecy started."
"Prophecy?"
"The Prince That Was Promised," Lyanna recited, the words sounding foreign and heavy on her tongue. "The Song of Ice and Fire. The Dragon Must Have Three Heads."
She looked at Ned, her eyes wide and haunted.
"He didn't love me, Ned. Not really. He loved a prophecy. He loved what I represented. Ice. Stark blood. He was obsessed with it. He had books... scrolls... ancient things. He would read them while I slept. He would wake me up in the middle of the night to measure my belly, to talk about signs and comets."
She shuddered.
"He needed a third head for his dragon. Elia couldn't give it to him. So he found me. I wasn't a wife. I was a vessel. A womb to breed a savior."
Ned felt a surge of anger toward the dead Prince. Rhaegar Targaryen, the melancholic hero, the misunderstood artist. In reality, he was just another Targaryen madman, chasing ghosts while the real world burned.
"When did you realize?" Ned asked.
"When the war started," Lyanna said. "When we heard about Brandon. I wanted to go home. I wanted to go to King's Landing and beg Aerys for mercy. Rhaegar... he wouldn't let me."
"He kept you prisoner?"
"He said it was for my safety," Lyanna said bitterly. "He said the child was too important. 'The Third Head must be born.' He brought me here, to this tower in the middle of nowhere. And he left me with his Kingsguards."
"To protect you," Ned said.
"To keep me in," Lyanna corrected. "They weren't guards, Ned. They were jailers. Polite, honorable jailers in white cloaks, but jailers all the same. I tried to leave. Once. Ser Oswell stopped me at the door. He was smiling, but he had his hand on his sword. He said, 'The Prince commanded you stay, my lady.'"
Ned's grip on the bedsheet tightened until his knuckles cracked. "So he left you here to rot while he went to play soldier."
"He went to save his dynasty," Lyanna said tiredly. "He kissed my forehead and told me that when he returned, the world would be changed. That our daughter would save everyone."
"He didn't return," Ned said.
"I know," Lyanna whispered. "I felt it. A few days ago. A cold feeling in my heart. Like a string snapping."
She looked at Ned.
"He's dead, isn't he? Robert killed him."
"Yes," Ned said. "At the Trident."
"Good," Lyanna said.
The word hung in the air.
"He ruined everything," she whispered. "For a prophecy. For a dream. I loved him, Ned. I really did. But in the end... I think I hated him more."
She winced, a spasm of pain crossing her face. Her hand went to her belly.
"The baby," Ned said, alarmed. "Is it coming?"
"Soon," Lyanna gasped, relaxing as the contraction passed. "Not today. Maybe tomorrow. Or the next day. The maester... Rhaegar didn't leave a maester. Just Wylla." She gestured to the maid. "She's a midwife."
"That's not enough," Ned said. "You look..."
"Like death?" Lyanna managed a weak smile. "I feel like it. The fever comes and goes."
"We will get you through this," Ned said fiercely. "I have... I have learned things, Lya. Ways to help."
He thought of his training in the mountains. The rabbits. The goats. The flow of life energy. He would keep her alive. He would force her to live if he had to.
"The Kingsguard," Lyanna asked, looking toward the window. "Arthur... he was kind to me. He brought me water. He sat with me when the nightmares came. He was the only one who seemed to care about me, not just the prophecy. But he said he couldn't let me leave. His vows..."
"Arthur is alive," Ned said.
Lyanna's eyes widened. "Alive? But... the fighting..."
"I defeated them," Ned said. "Gerold and Oswell are dead. They wouldn't yield. But Arthur... I knocked him out. He's tied up downstairs."
Relief washed over Lyanna's face. "Thank the gods. He is a good man, Ned. Just... trapped. Like I was."
"He's safe," Ned promised. "And so are you."
He stood up, pacing the small room. He needed to make a plan. The war was over, but the danger wasn't.
"We stay here until the baby comes," Ned decided. "Wylla can handle the birth. I will... assist."
"You?" Lyanna raised an eyebrow. "You faint at the sight of blood, Ned."
"I've seen enough blood in the last year to drown a kingdom," Ned said grimly. "I don't faint anymore. And I have other skills now."
"What skills?"
"Trust me," Ned said. "After the birth, once you are strong enough to travel, we go home."
"Home," Lyanna whispered the word like a prayer. "Winterfell."
"Winterfell," Ned confirmed. "No more South. No more dragons. No more politics. Just the North."
"And the baby?" Lyanna asked, her voice trembling. "Robert... if he finds out..."
"Robert will never know," Ned said. "The baby is mine."
Lyanna blinked. "Yours?"
"My bastard," Ned said, formulating the lie that would save a life. "Born of a wartime romance. Wylla here..." He looked at the maid, who nodded frantically, understanding the game. "She is the mother. Or maybe Ashara. We'll decide the story later. But the boy—or girl—returns to Winterfell as a Stark."
"He has Targaryen blood," Lyanna warned. "Robert will hunt him."
"He has Stark blood," Ned countered. "And he will be under my roof. Let Robert hunt. He'll find nothing but snow. And if war knocks on the North, then there will be 20,000 swords between Robert and the baby."
He walked back to the bed and took her hand again.
"You are safe, Lya. The pack survives."
Lyanna squeezed his hand. Her grip was weak, but it was there.
"The lone wolf dies," she whispered the old adage.
"But the pack survives," Ned finished.
He sat with her as the sun went down, casting long red shadows across the floor. He told her about Benjen, about the bridge he built, about the new glass gardens he planned to construct. He talked about boring, mundane things to anchor her to the world.
Downstairs, the greatest knight in the world was tied to a post, defeated by a man who shouldn't have been able to touch him. Outside, the world was changing.
But in the tower, for the first time in a year, there was peace.