Wylla pressed the wet cloth to the woman's face, wiping away the beads of perspiration. She ought to have kept well away, she thought, dimly aware that the other woman standing at the foot of the bed was still speaking words of encouragement. How Wylla longed to shut the midwife up.

It had been three days; three gruelling days of sitting by the bedside and listening to sobs of pain. The girl was dying. It was clear. Her skin was ashen, her eyes were glazed over. In fact, Wylla doubted that she understood a thing that was being said to her. The cloth slid lower to one wet cheek. "She'll not last, Madge," she spoke over her shoulder to the midwife. Whatever had the Prince thought?

"Keep that wicked tongue of yours in your head," the midwife replied without an ounce of delicacy. "Come, m'lady, one more time, push."

A weak cry passed the girl's lips, but somehow she managed to see the instructions through. Not that it was of much help. As soon as the babe was without, she fell back against her pillows, panting and weeping. From the end of the bed there came no sound.

She had been right. Wylla had known the moment the kingsguard carried her up the steps and into the bedchamber. It had been clear that there was no pleasant ending in sight.

Wylla abandoned the labouring woman's side and peered at what the midwife held. She gasped. Poor lady. "We should wrap the child up," she said softly. Then, gazing at the Northerner girl, she heaved a sigh. "Hardly seems fair."

"What do you care," the older woman snapped. "You said she wouldn't make it anyway."

"Not with the heavy bleeding she won't," Wylla assured the other. "I've seen it with my own mother. A few days of fever, mayhap a week or two and she won't be of this world any longer."

The door was pushed open so suddenly that the two women jumped. The white clad figure in the doorway looked at the two of them. "Well? What goes on here?" the man questioned. The look on his face spoke of impatience.

"The child had arrived," the old midwife said, holding the unmoving bundle up, "and has gone as well." The last part was whispered, presumably for the benefit of the mother who might yet be able to retain words and meaning. "The mother is in a bad way as well, ser. 'Twould best serve her to find a maester."

The man motioned for the bundle to be brought to him. He took the child from the hands of the midwife and gazed down at the small, blue face. "A stillbirth?"

"Aye," the second woman confirmed. "Couldn't do nothing for either of them."

It must have happened when the girl fell, Wylla reckoned. That was when the bleeding had started. It was a wonder she'd not been infected and had lived as long as she had. What had she been thinking, running up and down the stairs?

"It would seem my services are no longer needed," the midwife cut in. "I shall leave after I am done cleaning."

A sharp nod of the head was the answer received. The kingsguard took the child away. None of the women presented protested, least of all the youngest one who seemed to be fading fast. Madge returned to her business, stripping away wet and bloodied cloth and clothes. Wylla helped as well. But she truly did not see the point. "We should just put a clean dress on her." Not that it would matter. She would bleed all over that one as well.

But Madge was doing something else. Wylla turned here away and saw to bundling the stained sheets together. The old woman coughed and Wylla heard her shoes moving against the floorboard. She duped the linens on the ground and pulled out clean ones. The lady would not be able to appreciate it, very likely, but it was still their duty. And there was some pretty coin to be had for it.

"Do you think she'll wake up?" Wylla questioned suddenly, turning around with an armful of pristine sheets.

Madge shrugged. "Depends on her own strength. She has cheated death once. Let us see if the gods shall be good enough a second time."

It did not look as if the gods much cared for her. Wylla looked at her face as she held her up for Madge to spread the sheets. The face that had started a war, Men and their prides, she thought with a hint of distaste. If she died, she did so because no one ever listened to her. A pity, she might have had a pleasant life.

And if she lived, 'twould be just as bad as having died. She had lost her family and most likely her lands. She'd not been able to give the daughter she had promised. And hurtful words had been said when the Prince had left. If the girl lived, she would spend her days wishing she had died.

Wylla's eyes fell upon one of the pillows. Death would be a kindness.

"Come along, Wylla, and leave the lady to her rest," Madge instructed, pulling on the other's hand with surprising force. For a moment, Wylla hesitated, still eyeing the pillow. She could do nothing with Madge there however. The notion was abandoned as she was dragged away. It seemed she could be of no aid the girl.

"Madge, 'tis unkind. You could end her misery," Wylla complained softly.

In response, Madge slapped the back of her head. "I save lives, not take them. And if you ever say anything of this like again I shall personally cut that tongue of yours out."

Wylla huffed but offered no more words. It was no business of hers in any case what happened to Lyanna Stark. She had simply felt sorry for the girl, to have been used as she had ad then left at the mercy of fate. What was done could not be undone

Madge walked in front of her, hurrying own the spiralling stairs. It seemed both of them were eager to leave behind the tower and the tragedy that was to come. For what need would the Dragon Prince have of the lady now? Certainly, that was the question.

Barely blinking at the three men who were lighting a fire, Wylla led Madge to her cart. The older woman left without saying much else.

"Wylla," the lord commander called out, "find us something to put the ashes in."

Indeed, she should. Who would dare take from the great Prince the fruit of his labour. But Wylla knew well enough what it would be to go against the word of the White Bull. The woman nodded her head and re-entered the tower in search of that which might be fitting to hold the ashes of a royal child, bastard born though she be.