Tower of Joy, Dorne - 283 AC
The Tower of Joy rose from the red mountains of Dorne like a pale finger pointed accusingly at the gods, its white stone walls stark against the rust-colored peaks. Ashara Dayne studied the ancient structure as their small party approached, noting the way the afternoon sun caught the crenellations and made them glow like old bones.
*Beautiful and terrible,* she thought, adjusting her hold on Cregan's travel basket. *Like so many things in our family's history.*
Her one-year-old son had been remarkably well-behaved during the three-day journey from Starfall, though those unsettling violet eyes had tracked everything around them with that unnatural intensity that never failed to make her slightly uneasy. Now he was awake and alert, his dark curls catching the mountain breeze as he studied their destination with what almost looked like recognition.
*Impossible, of course. He's never been here. But then again, everything about my son seems impossible these days.*
"There," Maester Harwyn announced with the satisfaction of a man who'd successfully guided a party through bandit-infested territory without losing anyone to creative violence, "the Tower of Joy in all its isolated, dramatically inconvenient glory. I do hope whoever needs our medical services appreciates the effort it took to haul supplies up these gods-forsaken mountains. My back will never be the same."
"Your back was already ancient when I was a child, Harwyn," Ashara replied with fond exasperation. "Don't blame the mountains for what time accomplished years ago."
"Time is a perfectly acceptable scapegoat for most of life's inconveniences," Harwyn replied cheerfully, "but these particular mountains deserve their share of the blame. Whoever decided to build a tower in the middle of bloody nowhere clearly had more poetry in their soul than sense in their head."
*That would be us Daynes,* Ashara thought with dark humor. *We've never met a dramatically inconvenient location we didn't want to build something on.*
Ser Davron Allyrion, riding point as he had throughout their journey, raised his hand in the universal signal for caution. His weathered face carried the expression of a man who'd survived twenty years of border conflicts by never taking anything at face value.
"Three horses tethered outside," he reported in that economical way professional soldiers used when lives might depend on accurate information. "Good stock, well-cared for. Military saddles, but the harness work is Kingsguard quality. White leather, gold fittings—the expensive kind."
"Kingsguard?" Ashara asked, though a cold certainty was already settling in her stomach. "Here? Now?"
*Arthur requested a maester and a midwife. If there are Kingsguard here...*
Baby Cregan made a soft sound—not distress, exactly, but something almost like anticipation. When Ashara looked down at him, those violet eyes were fixed on the tower with an intensity that made her shiver.
*What do you see, little one? What do you know that we don't?*
"My lady," Ser Davron said quietly, his hand resting on his sword hilt with practiced casualness, "perhaps we should approach with caution. Three Kingsguard knights in an isolated tower, requesting medical assistance... it suggests complications of the sort that usually involve people dying in spectacular fashion."
"Or being born," Harwyn observed grimly. "Which, in my experience, can be just as dangerous and considerably messier. Though usually with better long-term outcomes, assuming everyone survives the experience."
Before Ashara could respond, the tower's great doors opened with the slow dignity of an ancient fortress that had seen too much history. Three figures emerged, and even at this distance, they were unmistakable.
Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, stood in the center with that casual grace that had made him legendary from Dorne to the Wall. The ancestral blade Dawn hung at his side, its pale metal seeming to capture and hold the afternoon light. His violet eyes—so like her own, so like Cregan's—were fixed on their approaching party with an expression of relief so profound it made Ashara's chest tight.
To his right stood Lord Commander Gerold Hightower, the White Bull himself, looking every inch the legendary knight despite being well into his sixth decade. His white cloak was pristine, his bearing ramrod straight, his weathered face carrying the authority of a man who'd served kings and seen kingdoms rise and fall.
And on Arthur's left, Ser Oswell Whent completed the trio—the Bat Knight, with his easy smile and deceptively jovial manner that concealed one of the finest tactical minds in Westeros. His dark eyes were already cataloging their party, assessing threats and capabilities with professional interest.
*Three of the finest knights alive,* Ashara realized, *standing guard at an isolated tower in the middle of nowhere, while the realm tears itself apart around them. This is either about something incredibly important, or incredibly stupid. Possibly both.*
"Sister!" Arthur called, his voice carrying clearly across the courtyard, relief and joy mingling in equal measure. "Ashara, thank the Seven you came. We have desperate need of your skills."
"And of your discretion," Lord Commander Hightower added, his voice carrying that particular note of authority that had made kings listen to his counsel for decades. "What transpires here must remain secret, for the safety of all involved."
*Secret,* Ashara thought as they dismounted in the courtyard. *Of course it's a secret. When has our family ever dealt with anything straightforward?*
Baby Cregan was studying the three Kingsguard with that unsettling intensity, his violet eyes moving from face to face as if cataloging something important. When Arthur approached to help with the travel supplies, the child reached out with one chubby hand toward the Sword of the Morning.
"Hello, little nephew," Arthur said softly, his stern features transforming with wonder as he looked down at Cregan. "By the gods, Ashara, he has your eyes. And Brandon's strong jaw—he's going to be a heartbreaker when he grows up."
"Assuming he lives long enough to grow up," Ashara replied with that practical pessimism that had kept House Dayne alive through centuries of border wars. "Which, given current circumstances and our family's talent for dramatic complications, is perhaps not guaranteed."
"He'll live," Arthur said with quiet certainty, gently touching the baby's outstretched hand. "This one has steel in him, I can see it. And intelligence. Look at those eyes—he's cataloging everything, understanding more than he should at his age."
*You have no idea,* thought baby Cregan with wry amusement. *Though you're not wrong about the cataloging. Mental note: Uncle Arthur is perceptive, armed with a legendary blade, and apparently the sentimental type beneath all that knightly dignity. Useful information.*
"Arthur," Ashara said, her voice carrying that particular note of sisterly authority that cut through social pleasantries like a sword through silk, "what in seven hells is going on here? Your message mentioned medical assistance for a difficult birthing, but the three finest knights of the Kingsguard don't usually serve as midwives. What aren't you telling me?"
The three Kingsguard exchanged glances loaded with meaning—the kind of look that passed between men who'd shared impossible secrets and made choices that would haunt them for the rest of their lives.
"That," Lord Commander Hightower said carefully, "is rather complicated to explain. Perhaps we should move inside, where we can speak freely without worrying about who might overhear."
*And where's there's probably someone whose very existence complicates everything,* Ashara thought with growing certainty. *Someone important enough to keep three Kingsguard from their duty to protect the royal family during a siege.*
The Tower of Joy's interior was surprisingly comfortable, clearly prepared for an extended stay rather than a brief visit. Rich tapestries covered the stone walls, quality furniture filled the main hall, and the smell of cooking food suggested a well-provisioned household. Someone had gone to considerable effort to make this remote fortress into a comfortable refuge.
*Expensive preparations,* Ashara noted. *This wasn't planned hastily. Someone's been preparing this sanctuary for months.*
"Before you ask your questions," Arthur said as they settled in the main hall, "let me explain what you'll find here. What you'll see may shock you, anger you, perhaps even disappoint you. But I swear by our family's honor that everything was done with the best of intentions."
"Oh, wonderful," Harwyn muttered under his breath, setting down his medical supplies with the practiced efficiency of someone who'd heard similar disclaimers before catastrophic revelations. "Speeches about good intentions. In my experience, those are the last words you hear before everything goes spectacularly to hell."
"The situation is..." Ser Oswell began, then paused, clearly struggling with how to phrase something diplomatically. "Unprecedented. It challenges conventional understanding of duty, honor, and legitimate authority."
"Just tell me," Ashara said with that steel-over-silk voice that had once made princes reconsider their strategies. "Whatever it is, dancing around it won't make it any easier to swallow."
Arthur drew a deep breath, like a man preparing to leap from a cliff. "Lyanna Stark is here. She's nearly eight months pregnant with Prince Rhaegar's child, and she's been our... guest... for the past year."
The silence that followed was profound and heavy, broken only by the distant sound of mountain wind and baby Cregan's soft breathing.
"Lyanna Stark," Ashara repeated slowly, her mind racing through the implications. "Brandon's sister. Robert's betrothed. The woman whose 'kidnapping' started this entire war."
"She wasn't kidnapped," Arthur said quickly, his violet eyes earnest with the need to be understood. "She came willingly, Ashara. More than willingly—she planned it herself. The tournament at Harrenhal, the crown of winter roses, everything that followed... it was all her choice."
*Oh, sweet Seven,* Ashara thought, the pieces falling into place with horrifying clarity. *Not kidnapping. Elopement. Love match. Political disaster of the highest order.*
"You're telling me," she said carefully, "that Robert's Rebellion—all these deaths, all this bloodshed, the destruction of the Targaryen dynasty—happened because two young people fell in love and didn't bother to inform their families?"
"It's more complicated than that," Lord Commander Hightower interjected, his weathered face grave with the weight of secrets. "The marriage was... unusual. Unprecedented, even. It challenges many assumptions about inheritance and legitimate rule."
"Marriage?" Ashara's voice rose slightly, though she kept it carefully controlled. "They married? When? Where? Under what authority?"
Before anyone could answer, footsteps echoed from the tower's upper levels—slow, careful steps that spoke of someone moving with difficulty. All eyes turned toward the spiral staircase as a figure began to descend.
Lyanna Stark appeared like a ghost from another age, her pale hand trailing along the stone balustrade for support. She was heavily pregnant, her normally slender frame transformed by approaching motherhood, but it was her face that struck Ashara most forcefully.
*She's beautiful,* Ashara realized with a pang, *but gods, she looks like she's been through seven hells.*
Lyanna's legendary beauty was still there, but muted by grief and exhaustion. Her grey eyes—so like Ned's, so like Brandon's—held a sorrow that seemed to have settled into her bones. Her long brown hair hung loose around her shoulders, and her simple gown couldn't disguise the weight loss that spoke of poor appetite and sleepless nights.
*She's grieving,* Ashara understood suddenly. *Rhaegar's death at the Trident. She loved him, and now she's carrying his child while the world burns around them.*
"Lady Ashara," Lyanna said, her voice carrying that musical quality that had captivated half the Northern lords and inspired countless songs. "Thank you for coming. Arthur said he'd sent for help, but I... I wasn't sure anyone would come."
"Of course I came," Ashara replied, rising to help the pregnant woman to a chair. "Though I'll admit I didn't expect to find you here. The whole realm thinks you're a kidnapped maiden locked in a tower."
"In a sense, they're not wrong," Lyanna said with bitter humor, settling into the offered chair with visible relief. "I am locked in a tower. Just not the way they think."
*Locked by choice, by love, by consequences,* Ashara understood. *The most dangerous kind of prison—the one we build for ourselves.*
Baby Cregan had been unusually quiet during this exchange, but now he began to fuss, making the small sounds that meant he wanted to be held. Ashara lifted him from his basket, and immediately his violet eyes fixed on Lyanna with that unsettling intensity.
"My son, Cregan," Ashara said by way of introduction. "Brandon's son."
The effect on Lyanna was immediate and profound. Her grey eyes widened with shock, then filled with tears as she stared at the dark-haired baby with his distinctive Dayne eyes.
"Brandon's son," she repeated, her voice breaking. "Oh, gods, I didn't know... Arthur said you'd married, but not that you'd... He has Brandon's jaw, doesn't he? And those beautiful eyes."
*She's seeing her lost brother in his child,* Ashara realized with a pang of sympathy. *The nephew she's never met, carrying the blood of the brother who died trying to save her.*
"He does," Ashara agreed gently. "Though he has his own personality. Far too serious for a baby, and those eyes see everything. Sometimes I think he understands more than he should."
*Truer than you know,* thought baby Cregan, studying his aunt with interest. *Though this is a more complicated family reunion than I expected. Mental note: Aunt Lyanna is pregnant, grieving, and carrying what's probably going to be the most important baby in Westerosi history. No pressure there.*
"May I... could I hold him?" Lyanna asked hesitantly. "I know we've never met, but he's my nephew, and I... I miss Brandon so much."
"Of course," Ashara said, carefully transferring the baby to Lyanna's arms. "Though be warned—he's remarkably good at reading people. He'll probably judge your character within minutes."
Cregan settled into his aunt's embrace with surprising ease, his violet eyes studying her face with that cataloging intensity. After a moment, he reached up with one chubby hand to touch her cheek where tears had tracked.
"Hello, little lord," Lyanna whispered, her voice breaking. "You have your father's strong hands. He would have been so proud of you."
*Little lord?* Cregan thought with interest. *That's an interesting choice of words. Though technically accurate, given that Father was Brandon Stark, Heir to the Lord of Winterfell. Which would make me...*
The realization hit him like a physical blow. With Brandon dead, he was the rightful Lord of Winterfell. The heir to the North itself.
*Bloody hell,* he thought with growing horror. *I'm not just some minor lordling. I'm the Lord of Winterfell. The Warden of the North. The most powerful noble in half the continent. And I'm one year old.*
"Arthur," Ashara said, settling back into her chair with the businesslike efficiency that had once made her the most effective lady-in-waiting at court, "you mentioned marriage. Please tell me you don't mean some informal ceremony with questionable legitimacy. Because if this war was fought over invalid vows..."
"The ceremony was performed at the Isle of Faces," Lord Commander Hightower said formally, his voice carrying the weight of absolute authority. "Before the Old Gods and witnessed by the Green Men themselves. Ancient magic, older than the Conquest, binding beyond any question of legitimacy."
"And the bride?" Ashara asked, though something cold was settling in her stomach. "Just Lyanna, or...?"
"Both," Arthur said quietly. "Rhaegar married both Lyanna and Princess Elia in the same ceremony. Polygamy, after the old Targaryen fashion. Two wives, equally legitimate, equally honored."
The silence that followed was deafening. Ashara stared at her brother as if he'd just announced that the sun would rise in the west tomorrow.
"Both," she repeated slowly. "He married both of them. At the same time."
"It was Lyanna's idea originally," Lyanna said softly, her grey eyes defensive but determined. "I knew about Rhaegar's marriage to Elia, knew he cared for her deeply. But I also knew..." She paused, color rising in her cheeks.
"Knew what?" Ashara asked gently.
"That Elia preferred women," Lyanna finished in a rush. "She told me herself, that first night we met. Said she'd grown fond of Rhaegar but had never felt... romantic love... for any man. She married him for duty, for Dorne, but her heart was never truly in it."
*Oh, Elia,* Ashara thought with sudden understanding. *All those letters about finding companionship at court, about finally feeling less alone. I thought you meant friends. I never realized...*
"She suggested the arrangement herself," Lyanna continued, her voice growing stronger. "Said that Rhaegar deserved to marry for love, and that she deserved the same. The polygamy would protect her position, give legitimacy to her children, but allow her to... to find happiness elsewhere."
"Happiness with whom?" Ashara asked, though she suspected she already knew the answer.
"With me," Lyanna said simply. "We fell in love, Ashara. Both of us—with each other, and both of us with Rhaegar in different ways. It sounds impossible, but it worked. We were happy. For a brief, wonderful time, we were all truly happy."
*A triangle marriage,* Ashara realized with wonder. *Rhaegar with his two wives, Elia and Lyanna with each other, all of them bound by love and law and ancient magic. No wonder they fled the capital. No wonder they hid here.*
Baby Cregan had been listening to this exchange with that unnatural stillness, his violet eyes moving from face to face as if cataloging family relationships. Now he made a soft sound that might have been satisfaction, as if pieces of a puzzle had finally clicked into place.
*That explains so much,* he thought with the clarity of someone who'd lived through enough complicated relationships to recognize the patterns. *The secrecy, the hiding, the desperate need for protection. They weren't just hiding from political consequences—they were protecting something beautiful and impossible and completely outside social convention.*
"The marriage was consummated by all parties," Lord Commander Hightower said with the formal precision of someone documenting legal facts. "Witnessed, blessed, magically binding. Whatever else might be said of the arrangement, it was legitimate under both the Doctrine of Exceptionalism and the Old Gods"
"And the children?" Ashara asked, though she thought she could guess.
"Rhaenys and Aegon are Elia's," Arthur replied. "But this child..." He nodded toward Lyanna's swollen belly. "And any future children... would be heirs would have been considered both Elia's and mine, as well as Rhaenys and Aegon."
"Assuming any of them survive long enough," Harwyn observed with his characteristic pessimism. "Which, given current political circumstances and the tendency of powerful people to solve problems by murdering inconvenient children, seems rather optimistic."
*The most wanted babies in Westeros,* Cregan thought grimly. *Targaryen heirs with Northern and Dornish blood, legitimate claims to multiple kingdoms, and probably half the realm trying to kill them before they're old enough to walk.*
"There's more," Lyanna said quietly, her hand moving to rest protectively on her belly. "About Brandon. About why he rode to King's Landing."
"What about Brandon?" Ashara asked, though something in Lyanna's tone made her stomach clench with dread.
"I left letters," Lyanna said, her voice heavy with guilt and regret. "At Riverrun, when I was there for the announcement of Brandon's betrothal to Catelyn Tully. Letters explaining everything—the marriage, the elopement, my choice to go with Rhaegar. I left them in the chambers they gave me, with instructions for them to be delivered to Brandon and Father immediately."
"But they never got them," Ashara said with growing horror, understanding where this was leading.
"Something went wrong," Lyanna confirmed, tears starting to flow freely now. "The letters were never delivered, or were lost, or intercepted. Brandon came to the announcement expecting to reveal his marriage to you, Ashara—to finally tell our father about his happiness, his love, his trueborn son on the way."
*Oh, gods,* Ashara thought, her hand flying to her mouth as the full horror of the situation became clear. *He was going to announce our marriage. He was going to legitimize our child publicly. He was going to choose love over duty.*
"Instead, he found Catelyn waiting for a betrothal that could never happen," Lyanna continued, her voice breaking. "Found our father expecting him to honor a contract he'd already violated in secret. And then word came that his beloved sister had been 'kidnapped' by the crown prince."
"So he rode to King's Landing in a rage," Arthur said quietly. "Not knowing the truth, not understanding that it was all a mistake. Thinking his sister was being raped by a madman, thinking his honor demanded he rescue her."
"And died for it," Lyanna finished, her voice barely a whisper. "Died because I was too young and too foolish to ensure my letters reached the people who mattered. Died because I thought love was more important than family, than duty, than the consequences for everyone else."
The silence that followed was profound and terrible, heavy with grief and guilt and the weight of choices that had changed everything.
Baby Cregan reached up from Lyanna's arms to touch her face again, his small fingers gentle against her tears. The gesture was so purely compassionate, so instinctively comforting, that it seemed to ease some of the pain in her grey eyes.
"He would forgive you," Ashara said softly, her own tears beginning to flow. "Brandon would forgive all of us, if he could. He understood love, understood the choices it demanded. He chose me over duty, chose happiness over political advantage. He would understand why you did the same."
"Would he?" Lyanna asked desperately. "Would he really? Or would he hate me for causing his death, for destroying his family, for making his son lose his father before he was even born?"
*He would understand,* Cregan thought with absolute certainty, though he had no way to communicate this to the grieving adults. *Father chose love himself. He'd understand the power of it, the way it makes you brave and stupid and willing to risk everything for someone else's happiness.*
"He would understand," Ashara said with firm conviction. "Because he made the same choice. He married me knowing it would complicate his betrothal to Catelyn Tully, knowing it would anger our father, knowing it would create political problems. He chose love anyway, just like you did."
"And now his son will pay the price," Lyanna said bitterly, looking down at Cregan with fresh tears. "This beautiful child will grow up lordless, landless, marked for death because of our choices."
"Actually," Arthur said carefully, his voice carrying a strange note of formal precision, "that's not entirely accurate."
"What do you mean?" Ashara asked.
"Cregan is Brandon's trueborn son," Arthur replied, his violet eyes serious as he studied his nephew. "Born in wedlock to the rightful Lord of Winterfell and his legal wife. Under Northern law, under the ancient traditions of the First Men, he is the legitimate heir to Winterfell and all its holdings."
The implications hit the room like a physical force.
"You mean..." Lyanna began, her voice fading as understanding dawned.
"I mean that Ned Stark, honorable as he is, is currently claiming titles that don't belong to him," Arthur said quietly. "Brandon died without legitimate male heirs, so far as the world knows. But he did have a legitimate male heir—he's sitting in your arms right now."
*The Lord of Winterfell,* Cregan thought with a mixture of pride and terror. *The Warden of the North. One of the most powerful lords in Westeros. And I can't even walk yet.*
"But Ned doesn't know," Ashara said, her mind racing through the implications. "No one knows about the marriage, about Cregan's legitimacy. As far as the world is concerned, Brandon died childless."
"Which is a problem we'll need to address," Lord Commander Hightower said grimly. "Because legitimate heirs have a way of complicating political settlements, especially when those heirs have inconvenient claims to ancient titles."
"More immediately," Harwyn interjected with his usual practical pessimism, "we have a pregnant woman who looks like she hasn't been eating properly and a baby whose mere existence could destabilize half the kingdom. Perhaps we could focus on the medical crisis at hand and save the political complications for later?"
"He's right," Ashara said, her maternal instincts overriding political concerns as she studied Lyanna's pale complexion and thin frame. "You look exhausted, underfed, and grief-stricken. None of that is good for the baby."
"I know," Lyanna admitted. "I've had no appetite since word came about the Trident. Everything tastes like ash, and I can barely keep water down. The grief... it's like a physical weight on my chest."
"Grief can kill," Harwyn said bluntly, setting down his medical supplies with efficient purpose. "Especially when combined with pregnancy, poor nutrition, and the stress of hiding from half the kingdom. We need to get some proper food into you immediately, along with strengthening tonics and probably a mild sleeping draught."
*And we need to figure out what happens next,* Cregan thought as the adults began discussing medical treatment and political implications with equal urgency. *Because somehow I doubt we can all just stay hidden in this tower forever, playing house while the realm burns around us.*
But for now, he was content to rest in his aunt's arms, studying the faces of these people who'd shaped his destiny before he was even born. His mother, brilliant and brave and devoted; his uncle Arthur, honorable to a fault but willing to bend rules for love; Lyanna, broken by grief but fierce in her protection of the children she carried.
*Family,* he realized with something like wonder. *Complicated, dangerous, impossible family. But family nonetheless.*
And for the first time since awakening in this medieval nightmare, baby Cregan Stark felt something like hope that maybe, just maybe, they might all survive the game long enough to build something worth protecting.
---
Later that evening, after Harwyn had bullied Lyanna into eating a proper meal and taking his strengthening tonics, the adults gathered in the tower's main hall to discuss the impossible situation they faced. Baby Cregan had been settled in a makeshift cradle near the fire, apparently asleep but actually listening with intense interest to every word.
"The question," Lord Commander Hightower said with the methodical precision of a military strategist, "is what we do now. The realm believes Princess Lyanna was kidnapped. Her child, when born, will be seen as either a bastard born of rape or a legitimate Targaryen heir with a claim to the throne. Neither option ends well for anyone involved."
"And there's the matter of Cregan's claim to Winterfell," Arthur added, glancing at his sleeping nephew. "Ned Stark is currently acting as Lord of Winterfell, but legally, that title belongs to Brandon's son."
"A one-year-old can't rule the North," Ser Oswell pointed out with characteristic pragmatism. "Even if his claim were acknowledged, he'd need a regent for at least fifteen years. And who would that regent be?"
*Me, when I'm old enough,* Cregan thought with grim determination. *Though I suppose I'll need to survive that long first. And convince everyone I'm not completely mad when I start demonstrating knowledge I shouldn't possess.*
"There's another complication," Lyanna said quietly, her hand resting on her swollen belly. "This child... Rhaegar was convinced it would be the Prince That Was Promised. The child of ice and fire that the prophecies speak of. He spent months studying the ancient texts, calculating bloodlines and birth dates."
"Prophecies," Harwyn muttered with disgust. "Nothing good ever comes from prophecies. In my experience, they're either so vague as to be meaningless or so specific that trying to fulfill them destroys everyone involved. Usually both."
"Nevertheless," Lord Commander Hightower said seriously, "if Prince Rhaegar believed this child had prophetic significance, others will as well. That makes the baby either incredibly valuable or incredibly dangerous, depending on one's perspective."
*Both,* Cregan thought grimly. *Definitely both. I'm starting to sense a pattern in my family's luck.*
"What are our options?" Ashara asked with the practical directness that had once made her invaluable as a political advisor. "We can't stay here forever, but we can't exactly waltz back into civilization with a pregnant Lyanna Stark and expect everyone to understand."
"We could flee across the Narrow Sea," Arthur suggested reluctantly. "The Free Cities would welcome Targaryen exiles, especially ones with gold to spend. Lyanna could give birth safely, the children could grow up in peace..."
"And give up any claim to their inheritance," Lyanna finished bitterly. "Live in exile forever, never seeing Westeros again, never reclaiming what's rightfully theirs."
"Better alive in exile than dead at home," Ser Oswell pointed out grimly.
"Is it?" Lyanna challenged. "Is it better to live as a coward who abandoned her family's legacy than to die fighting for what's right?"
*She has a point,* Cregan admitted grudgingly. *Though I'd prefer not to die at all, if it's possible to arrange. I've already done that once, and it wasn't particularly pleasant.*
"There might be another option," Ashara said slowly, her tactical mind clearly working through possibilities. "What if we revealed the truth? Not all of it, not immediately, but... selected truths. Carefully managed revelations."
"Such as?" Lord Commander Hightower asked with interest.
"We could reveal that Lyanna wasn't kidnapped," Ashara replied, her voice gaining confidence as the plan formed. "That she eloped willingly, that the marriage was legitimate under old law. Frame it as a love story rather than a political catastrophe."
"Robert would still want her back," Arthur pointed out. "He's not known for accepting rejection gracefully."
"Robert might be dead within the year," Ashara said bluntly. "He's always been reckless, and now he's king of a war-torn realm with enemies everywhere. If something were to happen to him..."
"You're suggesting we wait for convenient deaths?" Harwyn asked with raised eyebrows. "That's a remarkably pessimistic strategy, even for me."
"I'm suggesting we plan for multiple contingencies," Ashara corrected. "Including ones that don't require anyone to die heroically or otherwise."
*She's thinking like a politician,* Cregan observed with approval. *Good. We'll need that kind of strategic thinking if we're going to navigate the mess Father's death has created.*
"What about Ned?" Lyanna asked quietly. "My brother deserves to know the truth. About me, about the war, about... about his nephew's true parentage."
"Ned Stark is said to be honorable," Lord Commander Hightower mused. "But honor and political necessity don't always align. If he acknowledges Cregan's claim to Winterfell..."
"He'd be admitting he's been ruling lands that don't belong to him," Arthur finished. "That's a difficult position for any man, no matter how honorable."
*Unless he sees it as doing the right thing,* Cregan thought. *From what I remember of the stories, Uncle Ned valued honor above personal advantage. He might actually be relieved to hand over a burden he never wanted in the first place.*
"We need more information," Ashara decided. "About the current political situation, about who's alive and who's dead, about which way the wind is blowing. We can't make plans without understanding what we're planning for."
"I could ride south," Ser Oswell volunteered. "Carefully, quietly, gathering intelligence. Find out who holds what positions, what alliances are forming, which lords are bending the knee to Robert."
"Too dangerous," Arthur said immediately. "If you're recognized..."
"Then we're all dead anyway," Ser Oswell replied matter-of-factly. "Someone needs to scout the situation, and I'm the most expendable of us."
*No one here is expendable,* Cregan thought fiercely, though he had no way to communicate this sentiment. *We're all going to need each other if we're going to survive what's coming.*
"Perhaps," Lyanna said quietly, "it's time I took responsibility for the choices I made. Time I stopped hiding and faced the consequences like a Stark should."
"You're eight months pregnant with a child whose father was just killed," Ashara said firmly. "This is not the time for dramatic gestures of Northern honor. This is the time for practical cowardice and staying alive long enough to protect your children."
"Children?" Lyanna asked, confused.
"Cregan is your nephew," Ashara reminded her gently. "Brandon's son. Your blood, your responsibility. Whatever we decide, we decide for both children—the one in your arms and the one in your belly."
The weight of that responsibility settled over the room like a heavy cloak. These weren't just personal choices anymore—they were decisions that would shape the lives of children, the future of ancient bloodlines, the balance of power in kingdoms.
"Seven hells," Harwyn muttered, pouring himself a cup of wine with shaking hands. "Two babies whose combined bloodlines could destabilize the entire continent. This is why I became a maester—to avoid exactly this sort of political nightmare."
"Too late for that now," Arthur said grimly. "We're all committed to seeing this through, whatever the cost."
*Whatever the cost,* Cregan repeated mentally, studying the faces of these adults who'd already sacrificed so much to protect him and his unborn cousin. *I just hope the cost isn't more than any of us can bear.*
But as he drifted toward actual sleep, lulled by the sound of their continued planning and the warmth of the fire, baby Cregan found himself thinking that perhaps, with allies like these, even impossible odds might be survivable.
After all, he'd faced worse before. Probably.
He hoped.
---
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