Five Days Later

He was going to die. Here in this scorched land, under the roasting sun, he was going to die, his spilled blood sizzling in the hot sand.

Ned had always known that Ser Arthur Dayne was the best knight that walked the earth. He could be no more than five or six years his own senior, but when he was young Ned had loved best the stories of this all-powerful swordsman with his legendary blade.

But Ned could never have understood until this day just how good a swordsman was Arthur Dayne, and how inadequate his own skills were to fight the man. They had come at him together, he and Willam Dustin, but Ser Arthur had used one sword as if it were two, and fought them easily until he took Dustin's head clean off, his arm moving as though he cut through nothing but air.

Now Ned was duelling him alone, barely able to catch his breath after each swing, all his focus on the burning in his chest and the ache forming in his arms and shoulders. Ser Arthur seemed to move with ease still, and Ned did not understand how it was that he still lived.

Surely he had left himself unguarded more than a few times by now, but the icy blade of Dawn had not come anywhere near his vulnerable points. Their swords met again, Ice and Dawn, and again Ned's arm went numb, shaking uncontrollably with the weight of the attack, and his head seemed to ring inside his helm.

He managed to deflect yet another swing, and jumped back to catch a moment's breath. His nostrils burned, and his throat was coated in sand. Vaguely, he was aware that the sounds of others fighting around him had subsided, but everything seemed distant and distorted, and he could not be sure.

Ser Arthur approached him now, and Ned thought he saw the knight's eyes move from side to side, as if scanning the hillside around them, but Ned didn't dare take his gaze from his opponent.

Ser Arthur swung again, and this time Ned thought his arm was going to fall like lead weights to his feet. His hand shook violently under the weight, but suddenly it was lifted, and his arm seemed to fly up, up, up…

The blade of Dawn was under his own blade then, and in one motion, Ser Arthur had cast Ice clean out of Ned's hands. The force of it sent Ned himself sprawling to the side as well, and he landed in the burning sand. As if the world had slowed, Ned watched, almost detached from his body, as his sword clattered to the rocky sand, the dark Valyrian steel gleaming dully in the sun.

Even now he did not feel the panic. So, this was it then. He had wondered who this war would claim next. He had been arrogant enough to think that he and the seven men who had ridden into Dorne with him would make it out alive. This was it. He would never see his sister again, or his new son.

Ser Arthur approached him now, but for some reason, his arm was at his side, Dawn hanging with the tip facing down. Ned furrowed his brow, his mind as if stuck in sludge. Ser Arthur seemed to extend his empty hand.

And then he too fell to his knees.

Paralysed by shock and fatigue, Ned only lay there, the heat from the sand seeping through his armour, as he watched Ser Arthur Dayne fall before him. He must have made some noise, but Ned could near nothing save for his rasping pants. A shadow fell over them both then, and bright crimson cut through the yellow haze.

Howland. His friend stood wide-eyed above him, then bent and picked up a flat disk of sorts, tucking it in his tunic. His eyes moved up from Howland's face to the fallen knight before him.

"Where—how did you—help me roll him up." That last moment—his lowered sword—his outstretched hand. It was almost as if...

Ned did not know where he found the strength to scramble to his feet, to bend down and drag the dying Ser Arthur to lean against a rock. Howland looked taken aback for a moment, but moved to comply anyway. The loudest sound was still the pounding of his heart as he and Howland propped the man up against a rock and removed his helm.

His hand came away slick with blood. Howland had cut Ser Arthur's neck from behind, and blood seemed to rise like a gurgling fountain, tracking red streaks in his silver armour.

"There—there's not way to save him, Ned, not out here with the two of us," Howland said, panting as well, clutching somewhere above his right hip, where his armour had been sliced open and was now dark with blood.

"You were down. I didn't—he was going to—had to be quick—about it—"

Ned only stared at him and nodded. Howland understood the thanks. He turned back to the knight, whose face was draining of colour. His eyes were bright as stars though, and Ned saw with horror that they were the same shade as Ashara's.

"I'm sorry," he said stupidly. He shouldn't have. He wasn't sorry—had no reason to be. This man was keeping his sister prisoner, had likely helped Rhaegar kidnap her, had stood by and done nothing even knowing that the prince raped her and held her against her will.

He should hate this man, should want to cut off his head, but Ned simply could not bring himself to believe him capable of such things. How could the man his Ash had spoken of with such love and pride be dishonourable and cruel? No, he was just a knight doing what he swore to do: obey his king; obey his prince; serve with his life.

Ser Arthur opened his mouth, and a raspy sound escaped. He licked his lips and tried again.

"Leave us…here…"

"What?"

"Here…where…duty…"

"You…you want us to bury you here?"

He closed his eyes and dipped his chin.

"We will. I swear, we will."

"My…sister…"

A jagged sort of pain cut through the sense of unreality. Oh, gods help him, what had they done? Why could he not have tried to talk reason to Arthur Dayne? And at the end, when he had been on the ground, that outstretched hand…Oh gods, what had he done?

"I'm sorry," he blurted again, and could not even keep straight exactly what he was apologising for.

Ser Arthur moved his head to the side, brows knotting as he tugged his wound.

"I…am sorry…your sister…Ash…you're a good..."

His hand erratic, he reached under his tunic and drew out a piece of string, pulling it up over his head. On the end was attached a little shell, pink and pearlescent in the sun. He pressed it into Ned's hand.

"What? What is—What are you saying?"

"End it…please." His voice gurgled like sea foam, thick with blood.

"Ned." Howland had sunk to his haunches beside him. In his hand was a stout dagger. "The man's incoherent. Best to end it for him before he suffers anymore."

His hand was trembling again, but he reached for the blade. He looked into the man's face, but his eyes had closed. For a moment, Ned closed his too. Then he shoved the blade deep into the back of Arthur Dayne's skull.

O~O~O~O~O

Ned had not been two hours in Storms End when the maester had hobbled over to find him. The man had looked almost too weak to stand, and when Ned caught him and bid him sit, he had pressed a scroll into Ned's hand.

"From King's Landing, my lord. For you directly."

There had been a small note wrapped around the large parchment, and on it, scrawled in a spindly red hand, was written:

The one you seek is in a tower near the Prince's Pass. Best to be discreet. I trust the North will remember, as they say, Lord Stark. Varys.

The larger parchment had been a detailed map, showing a path marked thick with red. For a few heartbeats, Ned had paused, wondering if this could be trusted, but if he was being honest with himself, he had no other option than to trust this Master of Whispers.

And so he set out by boat down to the Sea of Dorne and up the River Wyl. He had named five of his banner men, and Howland had named himself, and hoped Ned was not leading them straight into a trap. He had chosen them carefully. Some of his best swordsmen, to be sure, but more than that: Men who could keep silent; men who would keep his secrets.

He had not realised how unhappy Lyanna was with the betrothal until Benjen had confided in him. Ned did not know what he would find when he saw Lyanna, but if his sister did not want to return to Robert, he would help her disappear. They had lost too much for him to deny her anything.

Howland had insisted on joining him.

"I'm no swordsman, but I have weapons of more dubious honour. I can guard your back."

Willam Dustin sailed them upriver with ease, ducking past Castle Wyl in the night, and manoeuvred their small sailing craft to the river's source, near a ruin called Vulture's Roost. The had unloaded their agitated horses there, and picked out the stony mountain road that led to the Prince's Pass.

It had taken only a day to get to what was obviously the tower in Varys' letter, and the three King's Guard had been just off the road to meet them.

All this time, when Ned had been dizzy with fatigue, when he had been parched as they tried to conserve water on the last leg of their journey, he had imagined seeing his sister again. He'd drawn the details of it vivid in his mind, so that when he closed his eyes Lya's smiling face was vivid in the dark. It was what kept him going, the source upon which he drew to encourage his men.

Yet all through the past days—no, the past year—he had not imagined he would burst into a room to see Lyanna lying in a bed of blood.

The room felt hot and crowded, the air heavy and smelling of burning herbs and flowers. Perhaps there were others in the room. He did not notice. All his focus was on the dark-haired form lying in the bed.

Lyanna's face was ashen white as he approached, her features drawn with fatigue, and for a breath he wondered if this was a nightmare, for he had never seen his wild sister so drained of life. It was not right.

"Lya?" His voice was a whisper. For the first time in his life, he felt he had to be careful with her, as if she were thin porcelain, and could break at a touch.

She opened her eyes. The apples of her cheeks rose as she smiled at him, and he rushed forward, grabbing her hand. It was cold and clammy, and his stomach dropped.

"Ned? You…you're here big brother? Truly?"

"Yes," he chocked out. "Yes, I'm here. I'm here, Lyanna."

She smiled again, though the movement seemed to tax her. He drew closer, needing to know she was solid, and that's when he caught the sharp scent of blood.

Her legs were covered in it, sticky and dark. He saw his hand reach out to touch the blanket. It was still warm.

"Why…why has no one…"

"Why bother changing them?" she said, and he had to strain to hear her. "I won't stop…bleeding…"

"But—and the smoke—?"

"Helps with…pain…Doesn't matter, Ned…oh Ned…" Her eyes seemed to drink in his face, and there was such longing there he wanted to weep. Then she turned away, and he followed her gaze. There was a bundle next to her shoulder.

"Pick him up…big brother…your nephew. I named…him Aemon."

He had known this might be the way of things. Had expected it. Yet he still felt stiff with shock as he rose and awkwardly lifted the infant.

"Careful…his head…"

He had Lyanna's colouring: dark wisps of hair, grey eyes that opened and examined the new man curiously. Ned exhaled in a gush, and his legs suddenly felt weak. He dropped back onto her bed, his eyes darting between his sister and the babe.

"You'll keep him safe, won't you? Away from Robert?" Ned felt his insides twist.

"I'll keep you both safe. I'll hide you away, and your son, and—"

She raised a trembling hand to his lips.

"Keep him safe for me, Ned. Please."

He nodded mutely, staring again at the shiny grey eyes of his nephew.

"Promise me, Ned. Promise you'll keep him safe…and you'll tell him who he is…who his father was when he's of age. Please Ned, promise me."

He opened his mouth to tell her that he needn't promise anything—that she would tell him herself. Yet the scent of blood still burned acrid in his nose. I won't stop bleeding, Lyanna had said.

"I promise."

The tension left her shoulders then, like a severed bow string, and Ned panicked, a sharp pain whipping at his chest.

"Lyanna?!"

After a breath, she opened her eyes again, and draped her hand on the boy's head.

"He wasn't meant to be Aemon," she whispered. Her breathe was coming short and hard now, as if she had just come from a long ride, but her cheeks held no colour.

"He was supposed to be a girl…Rhaegar said…but it doesn't matter now."

"Lya, shh, save your strength."

"No, Ned…there's no need." She had to stop to catch her breathe again, and Ned saw that her cheeks were wet. Instinctively, he reached out a hand to her face.

"I…I'm trying to be brave…I am, but…"

"You are, little sister. You are brave."

"I'm not…I'm not, I'm…scared…and I'm sorry…I'm sorry…"

"It's not you, it was never your fault. Don't be sor—"

"Yes it was…my fault…reckless, stupid…the king came after me…for Harrenhal…"

"What? What are you saying?" She didn't seem to hear him.

"Rhaegar saved me…and we…Summerhall, to hide, but…Brandon…and father already…too…late I'm sorry…I never…I'm sorry…" Her voice came in gasps, and she seemed to struggle to breathe in between every word.

"Lyanna!" His own voice was ripe with panic, and when he placed a hand on her shoulder, she was trembling violently, despite the heat of the room. Ned placed baby Aemon next to his mother and desperately tugged the blankets tighter around her, but it was no use. His eyes darted around the room, seeing it for the first time, looking for something like a brazier.

A figure emerged into his vision, a small woman carrying a smoking basin. She set it close to the bed and nodded at Ned.

"Shall I take the babe?" She asked in her lilting accent.

"No!" Lyanna's voice cut in before his, and she reached a ghost-white hand to tuck his sleeping form closer to her. "No, Wylla…no, I'd…keep him with…"

"As you say, princess." She curtseyed and turned to the door, and that was when his sisters words sank in. He turned to her, eyes wide.

"What are you saying Lya? Are you saying…he didn't kidnap you? Rhaegar didn't kidnap you?"

She nodded, her eyes closed.

"I tried…I tried…ravens, and messengers I…tried but…couldn't reach…tried…"

"Shhh, it's alright, little sister, it's alright, I know you tried." Ned didn't know where he found the wits to reassure her, not when his own head was spinning. A lie. It had all been a lie. His father, his brother, this kingdom torn apart, and it had all been a lie. Who lied to Brandon? Who started this bloody war?

Then another thought.

"Why did she call you princess? You…but surely Rhaegar's already married."

"Weirwood…we were…and he's…Targaryen…doesn't matter now."

Ned found the infant's face once more. If the wrong people knew about this…but Lyanna was right. It didn't matter. Rhaegar already had a wife, and the Targaryens were no more.

"I just…I want…to go…home, and take…my son…home…"

"You will. You will. I'll take you home. Get some rest—you'll get better sooner, and I'll take you both home."

She shook her head again, and suddenly, when she looked at him, her gaze was decades older than her sixteen years. Those eyes held the weight of the world, the knowledge of all the pains of this life.

"No, Ned, I won't be…seeing…Winterfell…There's a…a sanctuary…near…" She swallowed, and Ned held up a clay cup for her.

"When I'm gone…"

"No, Lya—"

"When…I'm gone…I want to go…home…have the Sisters…clean…my bones—"

An icy hand seemed to clutch at the back of his spine, and the tang of blood and flowers stung his nostrils, making his stomach turn. They did not do this in the North, and for very good reason, for it always seemed unnatural. The very idea of consigning his body to maggots, then being boiled as if in a soup…Surely she couldn't want that.

"Lyanna, are you—"

"My bones…Ned…I want… to Winterfell…promise you'll…and…take my bones…home…"

He clenched his jaw. Her eyes were huge and glassy, desperate to hear him agree.

"Please…"

"I promise, Lyanna. One way or another, I'll take you home, I promise."

Her eyes closed, and again the panic rose, bile in his throat.

"Lyanna?"

"Sorry…my son, I'm sorry…promise me, Ned…protect him, promise…I'm sorry…"

"I promise, I promise. I'll keep your son safe, I'll tell him of you, I'll take you home I promise, I promise!' He had to force out his words, his throat knotting, his vision blurring. Roughly, he wiped at his face, but did not see her open her eyes again.

"Lyanna? Lyanna!"

She did not speak again. The room seemed to fade, then it darkened, and Ned could not remember anything else but the scent of blood and burning roses.

A/N: I don't want to be that author who explains stuff in the notes, but I'd like to say that, in terms of the fight at the TOJ, I 100% subscribe to the theory that the Kings Guard intended to kill all of Ned's companions, but let Ned up to see Lyanna. They knew Ned would keep things secret, but not that the others would. Again, it's not a theory I came up with, just something I find compelling.