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The morning light filtered through their window and spilled over her face. Jon stared down at her as it did; her head was on his chest and her arms were wrapped around one of the pillows, and she was all but swimming in her hair as it lay around her like a thick black cloak. He had woken an hour before dawn. The sounds of steel against steel already rang out from the practice yard, but he had stayed abed. He couldn't bring himself to wake her, and the only time he really got to look at her was when she was sleeping, the only time she was actually still.

Her face was unlined and unmarred, save the sliver of a pink scar that showed beneath her hairline. She had a small birthmark on the side of her neck that was almost perfectly round, and he gently ran his fingertip over it. She stirred, but didn't wake, sighing in her sleep. She had the same high cheekbones of her father, but her nose was less severe; hers turned up at the end where his hooked downward. He wondered if she looked like her mother. She had a smattering of freckles over her shoulders, that he had never noticed before. Some were darker than others, dotting along her arms like an unconnected puzzle, but the rest of her skin was pale as milk and smooth to the touch. He ran his fingers down her side gently, and she woke then, her eyes blinking open. She stretched, her muscles sore from their previous day's training. Jon pushed the hair from her face, tucking it behind her ear. "I need to cut this a bit," she said, huffing as a strand fluttered over her face. Jon leaned down to kiss her forehead. "Never. Don't you dare."
She sat up to face him, pressing her lips to his, and then she lay down again, throwing her arm across his chest. "Come on, you," he said, and made to move from the bed, but she held him fast. "Can't we just stay here?" she asked, and her voice was so melancholy that Jon almost agreed. Eventually she released him, sitting up and reaching for her gray dress that she had thrown at the bottom of the bed the night before. "Fine," she muttered, "but I want those cinnamon cakes for breakfast if you're forcing me to leave this bed."
Jon could only laugh. "As you wish, My Queen."

Enrin popped the last ofher cinnamon cake into her mouth, chewing eagerly. She felt Jon's eyes on her and when she turned, he was grinning. "That's the first whole meal I've seen you eat in weeks," he remarked, and she shrugged. "You keep trying to feed me salted pork and venison, gods, I can't look at another piece of deer meat." She poked a finger down her throat, pretending to gag. Jon laughed then, a wholehearted sound that echoed across the hall. The torches burned bright on the cloudy morning, and the fire crackled hotly behind them.

Instinctually, Enrin's eyes fell to the floor, where just the night before Littlefinger had knelt, begging for his life. The blood had been washed clean from the stone, and yet she felt that she could still taste the sickly scent of death in the back of her throat. The thought of it made her stomach turn, and she thought her breakfast might be brought back up for all to see. She swallowed thickly and stood, pressing her fingers to her throat to quell her nausea. "I should see to the young ones at the archery station," she said, and she touched Jon's face gently before she all but ran from the hall. He watched her, confused, but as he made to follow he was set upon by Robbett Glover, who wanted to know exactly his place in the vanguard when they moved out for battle. Jon had not thought of it much. The army they faced was not one they had to impress; the dead did not care how strong their forces were, they did not care who stood with Jon as he sat astride his horse trying to look regal. Jon gave him a place of honor, if only to get the Lord to go away and leave him be.

He entered the practice yard, pulling his thick gloves over his hands. He wondered if he actually needed them; his fingers were rough and calloused from his years of swordplay, and he wondered if the gloves actually protected his hands at all.
He stood for a moment and watched Enrin with the younglings. She reached down gently to steady a small girl who shook as she raised the bow. She spoke quietly to her, and ran a hand to smooth back the girl's wild red hair. The girl nodded and raised her bow again, stronger this time, and released the arrow. It landed slightly to the left of the bullseye, but it stuck fast, quivering. The small girl jumped up and down, a laugh bubbling from her lips as Enrin picked her up and swung her in a circle, her own laughter echoing across the field. She caught Jon's eye then as he stood watching her, a serene smile on his lips. They gazed at each other for a moment, and their smiles turned sad, when suddenly a commotion from the front gates caught their attention. Enrin sat the small girl back down onto the ground and all but ran to Jon, who took her hand and led her at a brisk walk to the gates.

"Aye! Alright! I get it!"

The guards were milled around, talking in hushed tones, their weapons sheathed. Jon shouldered through them, Enrin close on his heels. Arya sat astride a prone figure, whos hands covered his face as she rained her fists down upon any part of him she could reach. "Arya!" Jon shouted and she turned to face him, her teeth gritted. The man removed his hands from his face and they realized it was Gendry, his hair slightly longer now that it had gone without a shear. Blood trickled from his lip where Arya had split it.
"What in the seven hells are you doing?!" Jon shouted again, gripping Arya under her arms and hauling her off of Gendry, who scrambled from the ground. Enrin reached out to brush the dirt from Gendry's roughspun cloak, and he waved her off gently. "Aye, Your Grace, don't fuss," he said, and he turned to Arya, who struggled in Jon's vicelike grip. "I believe I deserved it," he said, and a grin played on his lips. Blood dripped down his chin.
Arya stopped struggling and Jon released her, and he stood back and let them face off. "I didn't think I'd see you again," Arya spat, and then turned to Jon who almost recoiled. "You didn't tell me he was coming here," she accused, and Jon looked to Enrin for guidance but she only raised her hands in defeat and backed away a pace.
"Well I didn't know you knew him," Jon said, and his tone was incredulous, "what, am I supposed to just know everyone you've ever met?" Arya's eyes burned, but she quickly turned on her heel and stalked away, back toward the stables. Jon looked to Gendry, who had the grace to look abashed. "She'll forgive us both in time, Your Grace," Gendry said, running a hand through his spikey hair. Jon looked from him, to Enrin, and then back to Gendry, sputtering. "I'll head to the forge, if it please you," he said after he laughed, "We've brought the dragonglass. I'd sooner begin to forge weapons from it than be bested by a little girl in front of all these men...again." There were six Dothraki screamers with him, all who looked on him now with mirth plain on their faces. They had thick packs strapped to them, and the dragonglass spilled overtop them, and the guards around them eyed it curiously. Jon stood aside to let them pass, and he clapped Gendry on the back as he did. "I won't be pulling her off you next time."
At that, Gendry only laughed. "Aye," he agreed, "I wouldn't expect you to."
They moved off, toward the forge, at the opposite end of the yard. The smoke rose thickly from the fires.

"Come," Jon said, and he placed a hand on Enrin's back and led her back into the yard, "I'd like to see something."
They walked silently, their arms wrapped around each other's waists, the clanging of steel and the laughter of the young one's making a loud clamor that brought smiles to them again. They came upon boys sparring in the open pit, and their form was messy but strong as they pushed eachother back and forth, their wooden practice swords clanging together again and again. They stopped as Jon and Enrin came through, and began to bow, but Jon waved them up. "I'd like to see what you can do," Jon said, and when she looked confused, he unsheathed a steel sword from the weapon rack and offered it to Enrin. It was light and thin, something she could easily lift. She fingered the edge with her thumb; it was blunted, just enough of an edge to leave a bruise, but nothing more.

She heard him swing before she saw him raise his arm, and he was so quick that he almost landed it, but she brought the hilt of her sword up in a flash to block him. The blunt metal bit at her finger and she winced, but held fast, pushing against him with both hands on the pommel of the practice sword.
"Good," Jon said, and his voice was warm, and she strangely felt desire unfold in her belly as he watched her, his eyes hungry. She pushed him, ducking under his arms to whirl away again. She planted her feet and her sword was raised. "I'd like to see what you can do," she said, and her words were a challenge. Jon spun, his feet lighter than air on the ground, and his sword rained down on her again and again, but she met him stroke for stroke, her breath coming in short gasps. It was now that she was thankful that her father had taught her all he knew of swordplay.

A crowd of people had gathered to watch the king and queen spar, and the men muttered incredulously as Enrin twisted, slick as an eel. She was always of step with him, and she could see the pride in his eyes as he came at her again and again, never relenting. She was tired, her muscles ached, and her hand was slick with blood from where the blunted blade of his sword had cracked her knuckle, but she kept going, striking at him as often as he struck at her. She knocked his blade aside and hit him with her shoulder, throwing all of her weight into his chest, and he stumbled backward a pace, but kept his feet. Their blades clashed again, and then twice more, before they both feignted to their left and came to a standstill, the tips of their blades at each other's throats.
They both stopped, chests heaving, and Jon smiled. The congregation around them whistled and clapped. Enrin was the first to lower her blade, dropping it into the dirt. "I yeild," she whispered, and her voice was wanting only for him, and Jon knew he would have had her right then and there if there hadn't been so many people around to watch them.
A voice called his name then, and tey turned to see Sansa there, her great fur cloak wrapped tightly around her shoulders. "I don't mean to interrupt," she said as she strode toward them, her eyes kind, "but Bran has asked for us in the Godswood. He asked that I come and retreive you immediately."
Jon's eyes clouded with worry, and he took Enrin's hand in his. She squeezed his fingers, as she always did when she knew he needed comfort, and she followed him out of the yard. Sansa led them leisurely, but her back was straight as an arrow, her red hair swinging against her waist. She spoke of Winterfell, of their grain stores, how someone should lead a hunt to bolster their stores of meat. The farmers had harvested the last of the vegetables, she said, and it all should last them a year or more, if they avoided hosting feasts. Jon told her that he could not think of a feast that would need to be held, until the war was over. The thought of it made Enrin's gut twist. They may not need the food, before long, if they were not victorious.

The godswood opened to them and Bran sat beneath the great heart tree, the blood red leaves twisting in the breeze. Arya was with him, and she eyed Jon sullenly, but said nothing. She had not forgiven him for not telling him of Gendry, he knew, and he allowed her to glare at him all she wanted. "I thought it might save time, if we were all here," Bran stated quietly, not looking at any of them. His eyes were on the heart tree, staring into the macabre carved face. The red sap dripped from the eyes ans gaping mouth of the tree, and Enrin felt oddly that it was watching her. She stepped closer to Jon, who put his arm around her waist. The breeze blew again, and she shivered.
"Come closer, Jon," Bran said, and he joined his siblings at the base of the tree. "Join your hands," the boy said, leaning back in his chair, a great fur blanket covering him from shoulder to toe. They gripped hands, and Bran's fingers felt suddenly stronger in Jon's, as if he was bolstered by the closeness of the weirwood. "I have to show you something," Bran said, and his voice was far away. Enrin felt a familiar tug in her mind. Suddenly, they were not in the godswood.

Arthur Dayne fell in a shower of blood, his once silver armor now stained red. Ned picked up his sword, and the pale blade glowed red in the hot Dornish sun. Dawn, it was called, Ned remembered that well. He had never seen it before up close, and was loathe to admit that he had always wanted to. How easy it would be to take it for himself now, but he knew that he would not. Dawn did not belong to the North.
Another scream echoed from the tower behind him, the bricks as red as the sand beneath them. He looked to his comrade, who nursed a wound in his hip. Howland Reed waved him on, as his breath returned. Ned turned from him, taking the tower steps two at a time, as he heard the scream again that cut off into a gurgled sob. The pommel of the sword slipped in his hand, the blood still hot beneath his fingers.
He threw open the door, and the sickly scent of death hung heavy in the air. There was more blood than he had ever see, and it seemed to be everywhere. It puddled on the floor, and stained the blankets. It's rion smell mixed with that of roses, the cloying scent of the blue winter roses she had loved so much. The winter roses that he would often ride into the forest to pick for her, just to see her smile.
She lay in the bed, and the blood poured from her, soaking the blankets they had covered her with. She looked pale, the skin around her eyes was a dark purple from the strain, but it was her. The same dark hair, the same brown eyes that were so dark they were almost black. Yes, it was her, and he rushed to her side. He dropped Dawn at the foot of the bed, and he reached for her as she reached for him.
"Ned," she said, and her voice was weak, "is that really you?"
He gripped her hand, and he wanted to pull her to him, but the blood was coming fast, and there was so much, he did not dare. "Aye," he said, "it's me, Lyanna. It's me, I'm here."
"Are you a dream?" She asked, and her eyes rolled, her skin hot with fever. Sweat beaded and broke on her brow, and her hair clung to her skin. Her hands were like ice, and steam seemed to rise from her as she gasped for breath. "I'm not a dream," he said, and he smiled down at her, "I'm really here, Ly. I've come to take you home."
She laughed at him then, a sweet sound but it was full of pain and loss. "I don't want to be afraid," she whispered, and her voice was choked, "I want to be brave. But I'm not." She grit her teeth, the air hissing from between them,and more blood poured from her.
Ned's brows knit together, and he held her hand to his face, his vision swimming before him. "You are brave, Ly. You're the bravest of them all."
She screamed again, and Ned thought that the blankets could not hold any more redness. A handmaid came from the corner of the room, her skin the color of golden sand and her thick black hair tied away from her face. "My lady, it is time," she said, in the thick accent of the Dornish. She put her hands under the blankets, pulling Lyanna's legs free, and Ned moved to stop her. "Leave her be!" he growled, but the handmaiden did not move. When she pulled her hands away, they were red. "Now, my lady," she said, but her voice was thick with sadness, "good, yes, again."

Lyanna grunted, her hand gripping Ned's like a vice, stronger than it had been a moment ago. He held her steady, and more blood came, and suddenly a new cry was mingled with hers. It was strong and loud, and Ned wept to hear it. "A boy," the handmaid said, and took the babe to the corner to wash and wrap it. Lyanna sighed, a heaving thing, and her grip went weak in Ned's. She reached for him, to touch his face, and brought his eyes back to her's. They were bright and feverish, wet with tears. "Ned," she said, and her voice was stronger than it had been a moment ago, "you have to protect him. You have to. Are you listening?"
Ned's hands quivered as she reached for them again. "Promise me, Ned," she demanded, and she sounded so much like her old self that Ned thought she may stand and shake him, like she always did. "Promise me."

His eyes were on the handmaid in the corner, and the cries came louder and louder, the wailing did not stop. "Ned," she gripped his face in her hands, and the smell of blood invaded his nose, "Robert will kill him. You know he will. You have to protect him. His name is Aegon. Aegon Targaryen. Promise me, Ned."
The handmaid brought the babe to him, quiet now, as he lay wrapped in a thick blanket. She placed him in his hands, and Ned looked on him, with his shock of black hair and eyes as dark as Lyanna's.
"I promise," Ned said, and she sighed, and he held the babe for Lyanna to see, "look, Ly. He looks like you. Come on, come back with me, we can teach him to ride and to fight. Catelyn was pregnant too, you see, and his cousin will be as good as his brother. I'm Lord of Winterfell now, Ly. I'll keep him safe. I'll keep you both safe. Come on, Ly, get up. Come with me."

"My lord," said the handmaid, and her words dripped with tears. Ned looked up then, and Lyanna's eyes had closed. The fear had left her, he knew, and the fear was all that had kept her alive. Her chest had stilled. The baby began to wail again, and his hands seemed to reach for his mother as Ned clutched them both to his chest. He wept into her hair, the smell of the blood and roses choking him. "LEAVE US!" he roared, and the handmaid jumped a mile, "leave us. Tell no one what you've seen here. No one. Do you hear me, girl?" The maid only nodded, and she turned to flee the room.

When Howland came for him, Ned had wept all he could. His hair clung to his face in the track of the salt tears, and the baby slept sound against his leathers, and he held his sister to him long after she had gone cold. "Ned," Howland said, and his voice was so quiet and sad that Ned felt he could not bear it.
They lay her in a shroud, and loaded her into a cart they had bought from a passing merchant. Howland had certaintly overpaid for it, but Ned could not say. He sat on his horse, staring forward, his hands on the reins the only thing that could keep him upright. Howland had tried to speak to him as he drove the cart, his hand on his wounded hip. It had long stopped bleeding, but he limped, and Ned wondered if it would ever heal correctly. The baby in the cart wailed again, and he reached over to calm the boy, who only cried harder. Howland had a daughter of his own who wasn't much older than Lyanna's son, but Ned thought it strange to think it. Lyanna's son lay in the wagon, and he cried and cried, until Ned could stand it no longer. "Give him to me," was all he said, his first words in hours upon hours, and Howland scarcely stopped the cart to hand the babe over to his friend. Ned took the dark haired thing in his arms, and finally really looked at him.

He was Lyanna, his hair dark and already curling the same way hers did. His big black eyes stared up at Ned, and the crying stopped. He held the babe to his chest and spurred his horse forward, and soon he was asleep, lulled by the Dornish stallion's easy gate.
"What's he called?" Howland asked after a long while, as the sun rose above the mountains before them. The Tower of Joy was long left behind them, and so they turned North, toward home.
"Jon," was what Ned said, and the name slipped from his tongue eagerly. He had promised. "His name is Jon, and from today forward he is my son."