"Leave us for a moment," Ned said to the wet nurse, who bowed and left the tent with a soft flap of the canvas.
In his arms, he held an infant. This was the first time he'd ever held a baby before. He hadn't known what to expect, but even so, the sheer smallness of it took him by surprise. Its tiny head fit cupped into his large hands, the callused skin of his palms contrasting with its dark, soft, downy hair. It was strange, he thought, how everyone you ever knew, even he himself, had once looked like this. A little, helpless thing, unmarred by the world.
A wave of mixed affection and guilt washed over him. This child was his blood, too, in a way. Would be raised by him. Loved by him. And yet, the baby was not his son. That was when the guilt came, like a dark cloud over the light of a new life. He had tried not to think of it, but the sight of his sister lying on her deathbed had haunted him for many nights now.
She had been so beautiful before everything happened. Before she left with Rhaegar, before Robert had determined to go on his quest to get Lyanna back, before Ned left Winterfell. His last memory of her smile was as she rode away into the misty trees of the North, on the dark garron that she had loved so much. Her black hair had been done up in a braided crown upon her head, woven with flowers, and her eyes were a bright sky-blue, illuminating her long face. Ned waved her goodbye. Casually, though - he had never in his wildest dreams imagined that she would not return.
When Robert and Ned had arrived and rescued her, her health had already begun to fade. Her once lively eyes were now dull, clouded like dirty seawater. What really caught their attention, though, was her belly, swollen with child. She was almost due, and could barely stand, let alone walk.
Ned had not been present for the birthing - despite his strength in a fight, no amount of sword training could have prepared him for something like that. He stood down the hallway, cringing every time there was a high-pitched wail from his sister's room. Robert was no better in that respect, and had gone down to the kitchens to drown his anxiety in wine.
After what seemed like days of waiting, one of the midwives emerged and walked over to him, though she would not look him in the eyes. "Lady Lyanna desires your presence," she murmured in a hushed voice.
Ned strode in quietly, not knowing what to expect. He certainly had not hoped for what he saw. Blood-soaked sheets were being carried away discreetly. Lyanna's face was shiny with sweat, her hair sticking to her neck in strands. Her eyes were closed, and for a moment Ned's heart skipped a beat, but she was still breathing. When she heard his footsteps, she looked up. "Ned. Thank the gods you're here," she muttered weakly.
"Are you all right?" It was a stupid question, but his anxiety had made him feel slow, and he didn't know what to say. "Is…is your child…?"
The midwife piped up behind him, "He is alive. He. It is a son."
She walked over to the bedside and lifted the corner of a blanket to reveal the red face of a newborn baby. He fussed at the movement, but did not cry out. Ned started to reach out, but it looked so delicate that he thought it might break if he touched it. Instead he simply nodded, and looked back to Lyanna. Didn't she want to hold it? That was how it was supposed to go, wasn't it?
Lyanna coughed, and he jumped. "Have they given you any herbs? Medicine?"
She shook her head. "Milk of the poppy. But that's not -" she coughed again. "That's not the point. Listen to me, sweet brother. I need you to do something for me."
"Anything."
"Care for my child, when I am gone."
Ned felt a sinking feeling in his chest. He hoped she did not mean what he thought she meant, but the defeated look on her face was different than he had ever seen her. "You will survive this," he said, but he wasn't convincing even himself.
His sister laughed, but it sounded almost like a sob. "Take him back to Winterfell, with you. I only ask that whoever his family is, they love him. And when he is ready, tell him the truth. About who he is."
It shocked Ned that he had not already asked Lyanna the pressing question. "Who is the father?" He was not sure he wanted to know.
She confirmed his suspicions with a whisper, "The prince."
Ned was silent for a long time, as she struggled to breathe. He felt helpless, and angry, and confused, and he did not know where to direct his feelings. The gods, perhaps, though that wouldn't make him feel any better. He had lost himself in thought when Lyanna spoke again.
"Promise me, Ned."
Those were the last words she ever said to him.
For the next week he had felt unable to function, but finally his company set out for Winterfell. For home. Though his grief was still deep, a hollow well in his stomach, he would keep his promise to her.
In his tent, holding the baby, Ned decided on what he had to do. It was the right thing to do, the honorable thing to do, but it would not be easy. Claiming the boy as his own would be simple enough, but the hard part came after. Years of lying, and secrecy. Breaking the heart of his wife back in the North, who would not know any better. The boy would be plagued with a bastard name all his life.
And yet, he knew he could not let the only fragment he still had left of his sister slip away. Looking at the child in the flickering candlelight, he thought of a name for Lyanna's bastard - no, Ned's bastard, he would be from now on.
"Jon," he said. "Jon Snow."
Dun dun dun. Not sure if I totally buy this theory but it's fun to think about, so hey. :)