The Tower of Joy, Dorne - 283 AC
The pale stone tower rose from the red mountains like an accusation against the dawn sky, its ancient walls holding secrets that had already changed the fate of kingdoms. Ned Stark reined in his destrier at the crest of the final ridge, his grey eyes taking in the scene below with the methodical assessment of a man who'd learned that every detail might mean the difference between life and death.
*So many horses,* he noted with growing unease. *Far more than three Kingsguard would require.*
The courtyard bristled with armed men—not just the white cloaks he'd expected, but guards in the purple and silver of House Dayne. Professional soldiers, well-armed and alert, positioned with the tactical precision that spoke of commanders who understood their business.
*This isn't a rescue mission anymore. This is a potential siege.*
Behind him, his six companions spread out in the disciplined formation they'd maintained throughout the hard ride south. Lord Willam Dustin sat his courser with the easy confidence of a man who'd earned his spurs in half a dozen border wars. Howland Reed, small and sharp-eyed as a hunting hawk, studied the tower's approaches with the intensity of someone who saw threats others missed. Ethan Glover's weathered face showed no emotion, but his hand rested near his sword hilt with casual readiness.
Martyn Cassel—Ser Rodrik's son and as steady as his father—kept his mount perfectly still while cataloguing the defensive positions below. Theo Wull, wild as his mountain homeland, grinned with the anticipation of someone who genuinely enjoyed the prospect of violence. And Ser Mark Ryswell, young but seasoned, maintained that alert stillness that marked veterans who'd learned when to move and when to wait.
*Good men,* Ned thought with satisfaction. *Men who'll follow orders even when those orders don't make immediate sense.*
"My lord," Lord Dustin said quietly, his voice carrying the particular caution of a military commander recognizing a changed situation, "that's not the reception I was expecting. Those Dayne men—they're positioned for defense, not ceremony. Something's changed since we left."
"Aye," Howland Reed agreed, his sharp voice cutting through the morning air like a blade. "They know we're coming, know exactly who we are, and they're ready for trouble. Question is: are they expecting to start it or prevent it?"
*Or both,* Ned thought grimly. *Depending on what we find when we reach the courtyard.*
Before he could respond, the great doors of the tower swung open with the slow dignity of ancient hinges that had witnessed too much history. Three figures emerged, and even at this distance, they were unmistakable—the greatest knights of their generation, standing together in what might be their final moments.
Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, moved with that fluid grace that had made him legendary from Dorne to the Wall. The pale blade Dawn hung at his side, its star-metal gleaming even in the morning light. His violet eyes—those distinctive Dayne eyes—fixed on the approaching riders with an expression Ned couldn't quite read from this distance.
Ser Gerold Hightower, the White Bull, stood like a monument to everything the Kingsguard had once represented. Even at his age, even after months of war and exile, he carried himself with the unshakeable authority of a man who'd served kings and seen kingdoms rise and fall.
And Ser Oswell Whent completed the trio, the Bat Knight whose easy smile and jovial manner concealed one of the finest tactical minds in Westeros. His hand rested on his sword hilt with the casual confidence of someone who'd calculated every possible approach and found them all wanting.
*The finest knights alive,* Ned realized with something like wonder, *standing guard over secrets that could reshape the Seven Kingdoms.*
"Seven above," Martyn Cassel breathed, his young voice carrying awe despite his efforts to maintain professional composure. "It's really them. The greatest swords in the realm, together in one place."
"Aye," Theo Wull said with savage appreciation, his mountain accent thick with anticipation, "and looking like they mean to remind us why they're called the greatest. This should be educational, lads. Very bloody educational."
*Dawn,* Ned thought, studying the legendary blade with the fascination of someone who appreciated both its beauty and its lethality. *Forged from the heart of a fallen star, they say. Sharp enough to cut through steel, light enough to dance in the hand. In Arthur Dayne's grip, it's killed more men than plague.*
But it was the positioning that concerned him most—the way the Kingsguard had arranged themselves, the defensive postures they'd adopted, the careful spacing that would allow them maximum tactical flexibility. These weren't men preparing to surrender or negotiate. These were warriors making ready for what might be their final battle.
*They mean to fight. After everything—after Rhaegar's death, after the fall of King's Landing, after the war is over—they still mean to fight.*
"My lord," Ethan Glover said in that flat, practical voice that had served him well through twenty years of military service, "what are your orders? Do we approach under parley, or do we prepare for battle?"
It was the question Ned had been dreading since Princess Elia's revelations had turned his understanding of the world inside out. How did one approach men who were technically oath-breakers and deserters, but who might also be protecting the most important secret in the Seven Kingdoms?
*Carefully,* he decided. *Very, very carefully.*
"We approach openly," he said finally, his voice carrying the authority of command tempered by caution. "Weapons sheathed but ready. These men are still knights of the Kingsguard, whatever else they might be. They deserve the courtesy due to their station, even if that station is... complicated."
"Complicated," Lord Dustin repeated with dry humor. "That's one word for it. Personally, I'd call it 'treasonous,' but I suppose 'complicated' sounds more diplomatic."
"Diplomacy may be what keeps us all alive today," Ned replied, urging his horse forward down the winding path toward the tower. "Whatever you think of their choices, these are not men to be underestimated."
They rode down in formation, hooves striking stone with rhythmic precision that echoed off the mountain walls like drumbeats. As they drew closer, Ned could see details that filled in the tactical picture with uncomfortable clarity.
The Dayne guards were positioned to control every approach—archers on the walls, spearmen at the gates, cavalry ready to respond to any threat. It was a textbook defensive arrangement, executed by men who clearly knew their business.
*Professional. Experienced. Dangerous.* All the things that made this conversation infinitely more delicate than a simple confrontation between victor and vanquished.
As they entered the courtyard proper, the weight of history seemed to settle over the scene like a shroud. This was where legends were made or ended, where the fates of kingdoms hung in the balance of steel and courage and desperate choices.
Arthur Dayne stepped forward, his legendary blade still sheathed but his hand resting on the pommel with casual readiness. When he spoke, his voice carried across the courtyard with the authority of absolute command.
"Lord Stark," he said, and there was no mockery in the title despite the circumstances. "You are far from home. Far from your king and your duty. What brings the new Warden of the North to this remote place?"
*The new Warden of the North.* The words hit Ned like a physical blow, a reminder that his authority was built on assumptions that might be fundamentally wrong. If Brandon's son lived, if the marriage to Ashara Dayne was legitimate, then Ned was an usurper sitting in a seat that didn't belong to him.
"Ser Arthur," Ned replied formally, his voice steady despite the turmoil in his mind. "I come seeking truth. Seeking answers to questions that have plagued me since the fall of King's Landing."
"Truth?" Ser Gerold's weathered voice carried a note of bitter amusement. "That's a dangerous thing to seek, my lord. Often more painful than the lies we tell ourselves to make life bearable. Are you certain you want what you're asking for?"
*No,* Ned thought honestly. *I'm not certain of anything anymore. But I need to know.*
"I need to see my sister," he said simply. "I need to know she's safe, that she's... that she's chosen her path freely. Too much blood has been shed based on assumptions and misunderstandings. I won't have more innocent lives lost to ignorance."
The three Kingsguard exchanged glances loaded with meaning—the kind of wordless communication that passed between men who'd shared impossible secrets and made choices that would haunt them forever.
"Your sister," Ser Oswell said carefully, "is indeed here. She is safe, she is protected, and her choices have always been her own. But the situation is... complex. More complex than you might imagine."
*Complex.* There was that word again, the euphemism everyone seemed to use when reality became too uncomfortable to address directly.
Before Ned could respond, the sound of a door opening with considerable force cut through the courtyard's tension like a sword through silk. All eyes turned toward the tower's main entrance as a figure emerged with the kind of controlled fury that made seasoned warriors step aside without thinking.
Ashara Dayne strode into the courtyard like an avenging goddess, her violet eyes blazing with indignation and her dark hair streaming behind her like a battle banner. She was magnificent in her anger—beautiful and terrible in equal measure, radiating the kind of controlled power that had once made princes reconsider their strategies.
"Arthur Dayne!" she snapped, her musical voice carrying across the courtyard with the force of a whip crack. "Are you completely mad? Standing there in your pretty white cloak, rattling your sword at the one man in the Seven Kingdoms who's actually trying to help us?"
The Sword of the Morning—legendary knight, undefeated champion, terror of battlefields from Dorne to the Wall—actually took a step backward under his sister's verbal assault, his expression shifting from commanding authority to something resembling guilty embarrassment.
*Even legends, it seems, fear their sisters' anger.*
"Ashara, I was merely—"
"You were merely being a dramatic fool!" she continued, rounding on him with the kind of sisterly fury that made grown men remember why they'd been terrified of their mothers' displeasure. "Posturing like some tragic hero from a song when what we need is actual conversation between reasonable adults!"
She turned that blazing regard on the assembled Northmen, and Ned felt the full force of her personality like a physical presence. This was the woman who'd been the most sought-after lady at court, the beauty who'd inspired songs and duels and political alliances. But more than that, this was clearly a woman accustomed to command, to having her words carry weight that could move kingdoms.
"Lord Stark," she said, her tone shifting from fury to something approaching courtesy, though steel still rang beneath the silk. "I apologize for my brother's theatrical display. He's been reading too many songs about noble last stands and forgotten that some conversations are too important for dramatic posturing."
*She's protecting them all,* Ned realized with growing understanding. *Not just with words, but with her presence, her authority, her willingness to stand between armed men and the people she's sworn to guard.*
"Lady Ashara," he replied formally, inclining his head with the courtesy due to a great lord's sister and a woman of her reputation. "I come not as an enemy, but seeking answers to questions that have haunted me since the war's end."
"Questions," she repeated, studying his face with those remarkable violet eyes that seemed to see straight through to his soul. "Yes, I imagine you have many of those. Important questions that deserve honest answers, not sword-play in courtyards."
She cast another withering look at her brother, who had the grace to look somewhat ashamed of his theatrical display.
"The truth, Lord Stark, is that your sister has just given birth to a son," Ashara continued, her voice carrying a weight that transformed the entire nature of their conversation. "Prince Aemon Targaryen, though I suspect that particular title may prove... complicated... given current political circumstances."
*A son.* The news hit Ned with the force of a war hammer, driving the breath from his lungs and leaving him reeling. *Lyanna has a son. Rhaegar's son. A Targaryen prince born while the realm thought his line was extinct.*
The implications crashed over him like a tide of ice water. This wasn't just about protecting his sister anymore—this was about a child whose very existence could destabilize Robert's newly-won crown, whose bloodline carried claims that predated the conquest itself.
*Ice and fire,* he thought, remembering old prophecies and ancient legends. *The blood of the First Men and the blood of Old Valyria, united in a child who might change everything.*
"A son," he repeated, his voice sounding strange to his own ears. "How is she? How is the child?"
"Both are well," Ashara assured him, though her expression remained cautious. "The birth was difficult—it always is with first children, and the stress of recent events didn't help matters. But Lyanna is strong, stronger than anyone gives her credit for, and the child is healthy."
"Could... could I see them?" Ned asked, knowing he was walking into territory that might prove more dangerous than any battlefield. "I need to know that she's truly safe, that her choices were her own."
Ashara studied him for a long moment, her violet eyes searching his face for something—truth, perhaps, or trustworthiness, or simply the absence of immediate homicidal intent.
"You may," she said finally. "Though I warn you—what you learn here today will change everything you thought you knew about the war, about your family, about the choices people make when faced with impossible situations. Are you prepared for that level of truth?"
*No,* Ned thought honestly. *I'm not prepared for any of this. But I need to know anyway.*
"I am," he said aloud.
"Then dismount, my lord, and come inside. But first..." She turned those blazing eyes on his companions, studying each man with the kind of assessment that suggested she was cataloguing capabilities and loyalties with professional interest. "Your men will need to remain here, in the courtyard. What passes between you and your sister must remain private, at least until we've determined how much truth the world can safely bear."
It was a reasonable request, and Ned nodded his agreement. His companions could handle themselves, and the presence of witnesses might complicate conversations that were already going to be difficult enough.
"My lord," Howland Reed said quietly, his sharp voice carrying just enough concern to remind Ned that he wasn't walking into this completely alone, "we'll be here when you're ready."
*Thank you, old friend. I suspect I'm going to need all the support I can get.*
But as he prepared to dismount and follow Ashara into the tower, movement from the courtyard's shadows caught his attention. A woman emerged from one of the side buildings—clearly a servant or nursemaid—carrying something precious in her arms.
*A baby. She's carrying a baby.*
The child was perhaps a year old, with dark hair that caught the morning light and the most remarkable violet eyes Ned had ever seen. Even at this distance, there was something about the way he held himself, the alert intelligence in his gaze, that seemed far too mature for someone so young.
*Brandon's coloring,* Ned realized with a shock of recognition that went bone-deep. *But those eyes... those are Dayne eyes. Ashara's eyes.*
"Lady Ashara," he said carefully, his voice carrying a weight that made everyone in the courtyard go still, "might I ask who that child is?"
The silence that followed was profound and dangerous, heavy with implications that could reshape kingdoms. Ashara's face went carefully neutral—the expression of someone who'd just realized that secrets were about to be exposed whether she wanted them to be or not.
"That," she said quietly, "is my son. Cregan Stark."
*Cregan Stark.* The name hit Ned like a physical blow, confirmation of suspicions that had been growing since Princess Elia's revelations in the Northern camp. This was Brandon's son, the child whose very existence meant that everything Ned had inherited was built on a lie.
"Brandon's son," he said, and it wasn't a question.
"Brandon's trueborn son," Ashara corrected, her voice carrying the kind of steel that could cut through pretense and political convenience alike. "Born in wedlock to his legal wife, heir to Winterfell and all its holdings under Northern law and the ancient traditions of the First Men."
The words hung in the air like a sword suspended over all their heads. Around the courtyard, men who'd fought wars and killed enemies and thought themselves prepared for anything found themselves confronting a truth that rewrote the political landscape of the Seven Kingdoms.
*The rightful Lord of Winterfell,* Ned thought, staring at the dark-haired child with wonder and something that might have been relief. *The Warden of the North. Everything I've been holding in trust belongs to him.*
What happened next surprised everyone present, including Ned himself. Without conscious thought, he dismounted from his destrier and walked across the courtyard toward the child who represented everything he'd thought was his by right of birth and death.
When he reached the nursemaid, he stopped and looked down at Cregan Stark—*Lord Cregan Stark, Warden of the North*—with something approaching awe. The child gazed back with those remarkable violet eyes, studying his uncle with an intensity that seemed far too knowing for someone who should still be learning to walk.
Then Ned Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, did something that would be remembered in songs and stories for generations to come. He dropped to one knee in the dusty courtyard, bowed his head to a one-year-old child, and spoke words that changed everything.
"My lord," he said formally, his voice carrying across the courtyard with absolute clarity, "I am Eddard Stark, your father's brother and your faithful servant. I have held your lands in trust since your father's death, waiting for your return. I swear by the old gods and the new that I will serve you faithfully, protect your interests, and ensure that your birthright is acknowledged by all who would call themselves your allies."
The sound that followed was profound and absolute—the silence of men whose understanding of the world had just been turned completely upside down. Northern lords who'd followed Ned Stark through months of war found themselves staring at a scene that redefined everything they thought they knew about loyalty, inheritance, and the nature of power itself.
"Seven hells," Theo Wull breathed, his mountain accent thick with amazement. "He's swearing fealty. To a baby. To Brandon's baby."
"Not just any baby," Lord Dustin corrected, his voice carrying the kind of wonder that came from witnessing history being made. "The rightful Lord of Winterfell. The true Warden of the North."
*My nephew,* Ned thought as he knelt in the dust before his brother's son. *Brandon's legacy. The future of House Stark.*
Baby Cregan studied his uncle with those unsettling violet eyes, then reached out with one small hand toward Ned's bowed head. The gesture was so purely innocent, so naturally trusting, that it seemed to break through every adult complication and political consideration to touch something fundamental about family and duty and love.
*He understands,* Ned realized with wonder. *Somehow, impossibly, this child understands what just happened. What it means.*
When Ned finally looked up, he found Ashara watching the scene with tears in her violet eyes and something that might have been gratitude in her expression.
"Thank you," she said softly, her musical voice carrying across the courtyard like a prayer. "Thank you for seeing him as he truly is. For acknowledging what everyone else would prefer to ignore."
*How could I do anything else?* Ned thought. *He's Brandon's son. He's family. He's everything we fought for, everything we lost, everything we hoped to preserve.*
"My lord," Ashara continued, addressing the kneeling figure of the man who'd just voluntarily surrendered one of the most powerful positions in Westeros, "if you would still like to see your sister, she's waiting inside. Both of them are—Lyanna and her son. Your nephew and your... great-nephew, I suppose, though the family relationships are becoming rather complex."
*Complex.* That word again, the universal description for situations that defied easy categorization.
Ned rose to his feet, his grey eyes moving between the child who was now his liege lord and the woman who'd just redefined his understanding of duty and inheritance.
"Yes," he said simply. "I would like very much to meet my family. All of them."
And as he followed Ashara toward the tower's entrance, leaving his stunned companions in the courtyard with their new understanding of the world, Ned found himself thinking that perhaps—just perhaps—honor and truth might actually align for once.
Even if it meant acknowledging that everything he'd thought was his had never belonged to him at all.
*But that's what honor means, isn't it? Recognizing the truth even when it costs you everything you thought you wanted.*
The Tower of Joy waited, holding secrets that would reshape the Seven Kingdoms and redefine the meaning of family itself.
And in the courtyard behind them, six Northern lords tried to process the fact that their world had just changed forever, and that the man they'd followed through war and victory had just knelt before a one-year-old child and called him "my lord."
*History,* thought baby Cregan Stark as he watched his uncle disappear into the tower, *is about to become very, very interesting.*
He was, as usual, absolutely right.
---
*Inside the Tower of Joy*
The Tower of Joy's interior was a study in contradictions—ancient stone walls softened by rich tapestries, military efficiency tempered by obvious care for comfort, the stark functionality of a fortress transformed into something approaching a home. Ned followed Ashara through corridors that seemed to hold their breath, every step echoing with the weight of secrets about to be revealed.
*This isn't a prison,* he realized with growing understanding. *This is a sanctuary. A refuge built with love and defended with steel.*
"Before you see them," Ashara said as they climbed the spiral staircase toward the upper chambers, her voice carrying that careful note that meant important information was about to be shared, "you need to understand what you're walking into. The situation is... well, complex doesn't begin to cover it."
*Complex.* There was that word again, the diplomatic euphemism for "everything you thought you knew was wrong."
"Tell me," Ned said simply.
"Lyanna loves him," Ashara replied, her words carrying the weight of absolute certainty. "Loved him, I should say. Rhaegar. She loved him completely, utterly, with the kind of passion that makes people do impossible things and call them reasonable. Whatever else you think about their choices, whatever political consequences those choices created, the love was real."
*Love.* The word sat strangely in Ned's mind, a concept he'd intellectually understood but never truly grasped in the context of his sister's situation. He'd been so focused on duty, on betrothals and political alliances, that he'd never considered what Lyanna might actually want from her heart.
"And Robert?" he asked, though he suspected he already knew the answer.
"She never loved Robert Baratheon," Ashara said with brutal honesty that cut through years of assumptions like a sword through silk. "Not for a moment. She tried to explain this to your father, to Brandon, to anyone who would listen. But men hear what they want to hear, don't they? Especially when considerable political advantage is involved."
*We never listened,* Ned realized with growing shame. *We heard her protests as the natural reluctance of a young girl facing marriage, not as the genuine revulsion of a woman being forced into a life she found intolerable.*
They reached the upper landing, and Ashara paused outside a heavy wooden door that seemed to radiate warmth and quiet voices from within. "She's been through hell, Ned," she said, using his given name for the first time—a intimacy that suggested they were no longer speaking as lords and ladies, but as people who cared about the same impossible situation. "The birth was difficult, the grief over Rhaegar's death nearly killed her, and the stress of hiding while the realm burned around her... she's strong, but she's been tested in ways no person should be tested."
*Grief over Rhaegar's death.* The words hit Ned like a physical blow, a reminder that while he'd been celebrating victory and justice served, his sister had been mourning the man she loved.
"I understand," he said quietly.
"Do you?" Ashara asked, her violet eyes studying his face with uncomfortable intensity. "Do you really? Because what you're about to see, what you're about to learn, will challenge every assumption you've made about duty and honor and family loyalty. It will force you to choose between the truth and the lies that hold kingdoms together."
*I've already made that choice,* Ned thought. *The moment I knelt before your son in that courtyard, I chose truth over convenience.*
"I'm prepared," he said.
"No one's ever prepared," Ashara replied with a sad smile. "But I suppose we face these things anyway. Come on, then. Let's introduce you to your family."
She opened the door, and Ned stepped into a chamber that redefined his understanding of everything he thought he knew about love, loss, and the choices people made when the world demanded the impossible.
The room was warm and comfortable, filled with the soft light of afternoon sun streaming through tall windows. A fire crackled in the hearth, and the air smelled of herbs and new life and that indefinable scent of happiness despite grief that seemed to cling to places where love had flourished.
Lyanna sat in a chair beside the window, and Ned's breath caught in his throat at the sight of her. She was thinner than he remembered, her legendary beauty muted by exhaustion and sorrow, but she was unmistakably his sister—wild and fierce and beautiful in ways that had nothing to do with conventional prettiness.
In her arms, she held a child.
The baby was perhaps a few days old, with the distinctive silver-gold hair of the Targaryens and eyes that were already showing hints of the purple that marked his father's bloodline. He was small but healthy, making the soft sounds of contentment that spoke of a child who felt safe and loved despite being born into a world that wanted him dead.
*Rhaegar's son,* Ned thought with wonder and terror in equal measure. *The last prince of a fallen dynasty. A child whose very existence could restart the war we just finished.*
"Ned?" Lyanna's voice was soft, uncertain, carrying a weight of guilt and hope that made his chest tight with emotion he couldn't name. "Is it really you?"
"It's me," he said, moving into the room with the careful steps of a man approaching something precious and fragile. "I'm here, Lyanna. I'm finally here."
The siblings looked at each other across a room that seemed to contain the weight of the entire war—all the misunderstandings and assumptions and choices that had led to so much death and destruction.
"I'm sorry," Lyanna said, tears beginning to flow down her cheeks, her voice breaking with the weight of everything she'd carried alone. "I'm so sorry, Ned. For everything. For the war, for Father's death, for Brandon... all of it happened because I couldn't find a way to make people understand what I needed, what I wanted."
*No,* Ned thought fiercely, crossing the room to kneel beside her chair as he'd knelt before her son in the courtyard. *No, this isn't your fault. None of it.*
"There's nothing to apologize for," he said firmly, taking her free hand in both of his and meeting her grey eyes with absolute conviction. "Nothing, Lyanna. You loved someone, you made a choice, you followed your heart instead of following other people's plans. That's not a crime. That's not something that requires forgiveness."
"But the war—"
"The war happened because men made assumptions instead of asking questions," Ned interrupted. "Because we were so certain we knew what was best for you that we never bothered to find out what you actually wanted. Because a madman sat on the Iron Throne and chose murder over justice when Brandon came to demand answers."
*And because I was so focused on Robert's happiness that I never considered whether you might have your own ideas about what would make you happy.*
"The war happened," he continued, his voice growing stronger with conviction, "because we failed you. Not the other way around."
Lyanna stared at him with wonder, as if she'd expected condemnation and received absolution instead. "You don't... you don't hate me? For choosing Rhaegar over Robert? For starting a war that killed our father and brother?"
"I could never hate you," Ned said with absolute certainty. "You're my sister. You're family. And more than that, you made the only choice you could make. The choice that let you live with yourself, that honored your heart instead of other people's political convenience."
*And looking at you now, seeing the love in your eyes when you look at that child, I can't imagine how we ever thought we could force you into a marriage with Robert. How we ever thought duty could substitute for love.*
"Tell me about him," Ned said gently, nodding toward the baby who gazed up at him with those remarkable purple eyes. "Tell me about your son."
Lyanna's face transformed, grief giving way to the kind of fierce maternal love that could move mountains and topple kingdoms. "His name is Aemon," she said softly, adjusting the child's blanket with the careful precision of a new mother. "Aemon Targaryen, though I suppose that name carries... complications... in the current political climate."
*Complications.* That word again, the universal euphemism for situations that defied easy solutions.
"Rhaegar was convinced he would be the Prince that Was Promised," Lyanna continued, her voice carrying a mixture of love and skepticism that suggested she'd had her own opinions about her husband's prophetic obsessions. "The child of ice and fire, born to save the world from some ancient darkness. I... I never knew what to make of all that. It seemed rather a lot of pressure to put on a baby."
*The Prince that Was Promised.* Ned had heard the prophecies, the ancient legends that spoke of a savior born when the world faced its darkest hour. Like most practical men, he'd dismissed them as the sort of mystical nonsense that made for good songs but had little bearing on real life.
*But looking at this child, this impossible blend of bloodlines that should never have mixed, I find myself wondering if perhaps there's more to the old stories than I ever imagined.*
"What will you do?" he asked. "Where will you go? Because you can't stay here forever, and the realm still thinks you were kidnapped. Robert will want... he'll expect..."
"Robert will want his bride back," Lyanna finished with bitter accuracy. "The woman he's dreamed of for over a year, the prize he fought a war to reclaim. Except that woman never existed, did she? She was a fiction created by men who thought they knew what love looked like."
*Yes,* Ned thought with painful honesty. *That's exactly what we did. We created a version of you that fit our needs and convinced ourselves it was real.*
"He'll be here soon," Ned said quietly. "Tomorrow, perhaps. Riding at the head of an army, expecting to find his kidnapped love and the monsters who stole her from him. When he discovers the truth..."
"He'll want to kill my son," Lyanna said matter-of-factly, her arms tightening protectively around little Aemon. "And probably me too, for betraying him with a Targaryen prince. Robert's never been known for his restraint when it comes to perceived betrayals."
*No,* Ned agreed silently. *He hasn't. And his hatred for anything Targaryen runs deeper than the roots of mountains.*
"Unless," Ashara said thoughtfully from where she'd been listening to their conversation with the intensity of someone solving a complex puzzle, "we find a way to manage the revelation. To control how the truth is revealed and to whom."
*Control the truth.* The concept would have seemed impossibly cynical to Ned just a few days ago. Now it felt like the only way to prevent another war.
"What are you thinking?" he asked.
"I'm thinking," Ashara said with the tactical precision of someone who'd grown up in a great house and understood the delicate mechanics of political survival, "that Robert Baratheon doesn't need to know everything at once. That perhaps the truth can be... managed... in ways that serve everyone's interests."
*Managed truths. Careful revelations. Lies by omission.* A week ago, such concepts would have horrified him. Now they felt like the only way to keep the people he loved alive.
"You mean lie to him," Ned said, not accusingly but seeking clarification.
"I mean protect innocent children from a king whose hatred of their bloodline exceeds his capacity for reason," Ashara corrected with steel in her musical voice. "I mean finding ways to serve the greater good that don't require watching babies die for the crimes of their ancestors."
*She's right,* Ned realized. *Whatever else Robert's virtues might be, mercy toward Targaryens isn't among them. If he learns about Aemon...*
The thought was too horrible to complete. But it crystallized his understanding of what needed to happen, what choices he would have to make.
"What do you propose?" he asked.
"Give me a moment to think," Ashara said, moving to the window and staring out at the mountains as if the landscape might provide answers to impossible questions. "There might be a way. A way that protects everyone without requiring anyone to die heroically or otherwise."
*I hope so,* Ned thought, studying his sister and her child with growing understanding of how much he was willing to sacrifice to keep them safe. *Because I'm rapidly running out of ideas that don't end with more funerals.*
Baby Aemon chose that moment to make a soft sound—not distress, but the kind of vocalization that suggested he was processing the conversation around him with unusual attention for someone so young. When Ned looked down at him, those purple eyes seemed to meet his with an intelligence that was both comforting and slightly unnerving.
*Another child who sees too much,* he thought, remembering his nephew Cregan's similarly unsettling awareness. *What is it about this generation? What do they know that we don't?*
But as he sat in the warm chamber, surrounded by family and wrestling with impossible choices, Ned found himself thinking that perhaps the children were the answer to questions he hadn't known how to ask.
Perhaps it was time to stop fighting the last war and start protecting the future.
---
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