A grim determination took hold of me. I found a weathered wagon by the stables, and with a solemn sense of purpose, hitched a horse to it. The wagon became a vessel for the fallen, a grim procession that spoke of the sacrifice and valor that had graced this desolate field. I approached each fallen soldier with respect, my heart heavy with the knowledge that they had played their part in the unfolding tragedy of this war.

With each body I placed in the wagon, I whispered a quiet prayer for their journey to whatever realm awaited them. Their faces, both familiar and unfamiliar, bore the marks of struggle, etched with the scars of their stories. It was a humbling task, one that brought the brutality of war into stark focus. As the wagon filled, my mind turned to the construction of the pyre that would be their final resting place.

Amidst the solemnity of the task, Howland Reed emerged from the tower. His gaze met mine, and in that glance, we exchanged a world of understanding. His eyes conveyed the pain and loss we he felt, the weight of the fallen heavy on his heart. He shook his head in response to my unspoken question about the tower, and without a word, joined me in preparing the pyre.

As we worked together, placing the bodies with care, I couldn't help but reflect on the futility of the battles that had led to this point. The fallen were not just soldiers; they were sons, brothers, fathers, and friends. They had dreams and aspirations, but those dreams were now forever stilled by the harsh reality of war. In their sacrifice, I saw the tragic dance of fate that had brought us all to this juncture.

As the pyre neared completion, the sun began its descent, painting the sky in hues of red and orange. The fires of the pyre would soon join the dying light, a symbolic merging of life and death. The fallen were laid out carefully, side by side, friend and foe, all equal in the face of mortality. It was a reminder that death did not discriminate, that in the end, we were all but fleeting souls in the vast tapestry of existence.

I made a decision in that moment, a decision born from a sense of respect and honor. Lord Commander Gerold Hightower, despite being a foe, would not be consumed by the flames of the pyre. Instead, I resolved to take his remains to his family in Oldtown. It was an act of humanity amidst the brutality of war, a gesture that transcended the boundaries of conflict and acknowledged the sanctity of life.

After Howland and I settled the rest of the fallen on the pyre, Howland placed Dawn, Ser Arthur Dayne's legendary blade, in his hands as a mark of respect, an offering to the warrior who had fought valiantly. The blade would not be damaged by the fire, a symbol of the enduring legacy of a fallen hero.

Near sunset, as the sky was now painted in the dying embers of the day, we stood before the pyre. Torches in hand, Howland and I awaited Lord Stark's arrival. As he emerged from the tower, he carried a small bundle, cradling it with the tenderness reserved for precious things.

At that moment, I realized the weight of the bundle and the truth it held. It was Jon Snow, or rather, Aegon Targaryen, the trueborn prince and heir to House Targaryen. I remained silent, understanding the gravity of the situation, knowing that our paths had become inexorably linked by this revelation. Lord Stark carried a secret that was as heavy as the world, and I carried a truth that could shape destinies.

Approaching the pyre, Stark stood tall, his eyes reflecting the weight of the oath he had sworn to Lyanna, a oath of responsibility and honor. I saw him glance at me, concern and worry plainly evident on his face. He began to speak, words laden with respect and gratitude for the fallen, a eulogy that echoed through the silent air.

And then, Howland, Stark, and I lowered our torches, allowing the fire to dance and consume the pyre. The crackling of the flames mingled with the echoes of Lord Stark's words, creating a mournful harmony. It was a funeral pyre, a tribute to the fallen, and a symbolic moment of letting go. The smoke rose into the sky, carrying with it the souls of the departed, a final farewell to those who had given their all in the crucible of war.

The flames of the pyre crackled and danced, their flickering light casting shifting shadows upon the solemn faces gathered around. The night descended upon the tower, and the stars emerged, blinking into existence like distant witnesses to the events that had transpired. The air carried the scent of burning wood and melancholy. As the pyre slowly turned to ashes, I felt a profound sense of closure. It was a chapter ending, a brutal and heart-wrenching chapter, but necessary for the story to continue.

As the night grew darker, and the remnants of the pyre smoldered, we retreated inside the tower. The warmth of the hearth beckoned us, offering solace from the cold, both the physical chill in the air and the emotional coldness that lingered after the battle.

The crackling fire cast a flickering play of light and shadow across the room, painting a scene of quiet contemplation. Lord Stark, Howland, and I sat in the firelight's embrace, the symphony of crackling flames breaking the stillness. It was a moment pregnant with unspoken questions and hidden truths, a rare lull in the storm that had swept us into this tangled web of fate.

In the midst of the crackling quietude, a yearning to understand the intricate events that had brought us here surged within me. I turned to Lord Stark, my gaze reflecting the uncertainty in my voice. "Where is the child, my lord? The one you carried from the tower?"

He met my eyes, a mosaic of sorrow and responsibility within his gaze. "With the wet nurse," he responded, his voice soft, weighed down by memories. "Rhaegar... he was many things. But in his paranoia, he took measures that ultimately may have protected my sister's child. The only others present at the tower were a silent sister, trying to aid Lyanna through her birth," he paused, the weight of his words hanging in the air, "and a wet nurse, who, sadly, could offer no words."

A heavy truth settled over us, the child born into a world of shadows and silence, destined for a life marked by legacy and prophecy.

"Where are your men?" Lord Stark's inquiry cut through the contemplative atmosphere.

"I dispatched them south to Kingsgrave," I replied, my tone even, my gaze steady as it met his. "It's the closest settlement. There's a possibility Targaryen soldiers might attempt a supply run or some such. My riders will act as scouts, riding back with a warning if they spot any movements. If not, they'll remain in place until I arrive."

Lord Stark nodded thoughtfully, his brow furrowing in contemplation. The gravity of our situation weighed on him, and the responsibility of our actions bore heavily on our shoulders.

"Oros," Lord Stark began, concern etched across his features, "can I trust you with this secret?"

Our eyes locked, and I felt the weight of his gaze. "This secret is safe with me, my lord. As safe as any secret can be in these turbulent times."

The crackling of the fire seemed to echo the tumult within me. My true identity remained shrouded, but the burden of my own truth pressed on my conscience. The room crackled with tension, each passing moment like a question mark suspended in the air.

"Lord Stark," I spoke, carefully choosing my words, "secrets are the fabric of our world, woven into destinies. I too bear a truth, one that is intertwined with the events that have transpired. To honor this trust and acknowledge the weight of this moment, I shall reveal it."

The flames danced, as if anticipating what was to come. "My name is Aegon Blackfyre, trueborn scion and heir of House Blackfyre," I proclaimed, letting the weight of my revelation fill the room. The truth, once spoken, lingered in the air, casting a new light on the trials that lay ahead.