Prologue

Eddard Stark, 281 AC
Tower of Joy

Eddard Stark bounded up the steps of the sandstone tower, his bloodied sword still clutched tight in hand. His brown hair clung to his sweat-slicked brow, the harsh Dornish sun unforgiving overhead. Behind him, the mountains echoed with the sound of a woman's screams—screams he knew all too well.

At the top, a frantic servant pointed wordlessly to a wooden door. The cries were louder there, piercing and ragged—and then, suddenly, they stopped.

Ned didn't hesitate. He kicked the door open, the aged wood nearly breaking under his foot.

The coppery stench of blood hit him first, sharp and heavy, tinged with the faint scent of winter roses. He froze midstep, sword lowering, nearly slipping from his grasp.

Lyanna lay on the bed, her skin pale and clammy, drenched in sweat. The white gown she wore was stained crimson, as were the sheets beneath her. Her breathing was shallow, her hands reaching toward a doorway on the far side of the room.

He rushed to her bedside. Her eyes fluttered open at the sound of his approach.

"Ned… big brother, is that you?" she whispered, reaching up with trembling fingers to touch his face.

He caught her hand gently. "It's me, little sister. I'm here."

For a moment, her face lit with relief. Then came the pain. Then panic.

"I… I want to be brave. I don't want to die," she gasped, her voice cracking with fear.

"You're not going to die," Ned said firmly, gripping her hand tighter but gently. "Somebody get me some water! A maester—now!" he bellowed toward the doorway.

Lyanna shook her head weakly, pulling at his sleeve. "No... Ned, listen to me. You have to listen."

At that moment, an older woman entered the room, a bundle swaddled in her arms.

Lyanna's eyes lit up with a flicker of life. "You have to protect him. Promise me!"

She took the bundle from the woman and cradled it briefly before handing it to Ned.

He accepted it almost in a trance—and then froze. Nestled in the blankets was a newborn boy, his tiny face framed by tufts of dark, curly hair.

"Robert will kill him if he finds out," Lyanna whispered, tears falling freely now.

The babe stirred, his eyes blinking open—and Ned recoiled slightly in shock. One was a bright, vivid green. The other, a deep amethyst.

"His name is… Gaemon Targaryen," Lyanna said, voice barely above a breath. "Promise me, Ned. Promise me…"

He looked at her again—at the pleading in her eyes, at the life slipping from them.

"I promise," he said softly.

Her lips curled into a small, familiar smile—one he hadn't seen in nearly two years. Then her gaze went still, her hand slipping from his arm.

"Lyanna!" Ned cried, shaking her gently. "Lya, please… no!"

But it was done. She was gone—taken like so many others.

He pressed his forehead against hers, tears running silently down his cheeks. First his father, then Brandon. And now his sister. This war had stolen everything.

A soft rustle from the bundle in his arms drew his attention. The babe was staring up at him with those haunting, mismatched eyes—eyes far too knowing for one so small.

"I'm sorry, little one," Ned whispered, voice breaking. "She's gone."

As if he understood, Gaemon began to cry.

Ned held him closer, shielding him from the stillness of the room. If the boy's father was who Ned suspected, then this child had no one left. His mother lay dead. His father's corpse floated in the Trident. His brother's skull had been dashed against a wall. His sister stabbed half a hundred times.

On his father's side, only a young boy of six and a grieving grandmother remained—and even they wouldn't be safe if Robert learned the truth.

Ned looked down at the crying babe—his sister's last gift, her final plea.

After instructing the midwife to prepare Lyanna's body, Ned descended the stairs in a trance, his movements hollow and mechanical. At the bottom, the last of his companions, Howland Reed, approached him cautiously, an expectant look on his face.

Ned shook his head slowly, his voice low. "She's gone. Birthing fever."

He extended the bundle in his arms. "Meet Gaemon Targaryen—her son."

Howland's eyes widened at the name, flicking to the child's face, but Ned didn't notice. His gaze had drifted to a familiar form propped against a rock nearby—Ser Arthur Dayne, bloodied but alive, a rough bandage wrapped tightly around his shoulder.

Ned turned slightly toward his friend. "Howland?"

Howland followed his gaze and nodded. "The wound wasn't as fatal as we thought. I… I couldn't bring myself to kill him in cold blood."

Ned didn't reply at first, only watching the downed knight. Finally, he nodded. "No matter the man's crimes, I would not want him to die that way either."

Together, they approached the Sword of the Morning. Ser Arthur's famed purple eyes rose to meet them—though they focused not on Ned, but on the child in his arms.

"Is that him?" Arthur asked, his voice hoarse and cracked from days in the sun and his injury. "Is that their son?"

Ned gave a curt nod, though his eyes were hard. "Aye. But my sister is dead. No thanks to your silver prince."

Arthur lowered his gaze, whispering something—a prayer to the Seven, perhaps. Then, after a pause, he murmured, "It's not what you think. It wasn't a kidnapping."

That made Ned's brow twitch. He stepped forward, tightening his grip on the hilt of his sword.

"Speak," he growled. "Quickly—before I change my mind and end you where you sit."

"It wasn't a kidnapping," Arthur began, his voice steady despite the rasp. "It was Aerys. He sent men to seize her on her way to your brother's wedding at Riverrun. She was the Knight of the Laughing Tree, you see—and Aerys thought she was mocking him with her performance and her refusal to reveal her identity."

He paused, drawing a breath as if the weight of what he was saying burdened him still.

"When he sent a search party out from Harrenhal, it was Rhaegar and I who found her… taking off her armor. That was the beginning of their bond—even if neither of them realized it at the time."

Ned's voice was sharp. "What does this have to do with my sister?"

Arthur sighed. "I'm getting to that. Aerys eventually learned the truth—that it was her. He sent men to apprehend her and bring her to King's Landing." He looked away. "Rhaegar found out and rode out to warn her. Ser Oswell and I went with him. We made it in time—but someone must have seen the royal banners and assumed it was Rhaegar taking her, not saving her."

He shook his head bitterly. "I warned him—crowning her at Harrenhal was a mistake, that it would draw undue attention onto him."

Howland stepped forward, frowning. "Why not send a raven to Riverrun? Or better yet, return her to us?"

Arthur nodded. "We tried. If Rhaegar had returned with her to Riverrun, it would've drawn more suspicion—too many prying eyes. We sent letters instead. One to Riverrun, another to Winterfell. I don't know why they were never received."

Ned's jaw clenched. One massive misunderstanding… and the realm was plunged into one of the bloodiest wars in its history.

Arthur continued, "In time, they came to care deeply for each other. It's not widely known—but Rhaegar and Elia had their marriage annulled after Aegon's birth nearly killed her. Elia wanted to return to Dorne; life under Aerys had taken its toll. Their separation was amicable. Rhaegar agreed to keep Aegon and Rhaenys as his heirs above any future children."

Ned's eyes widened, but he remained silent.

"While on the run, Rhaegar and Lyanna grew closer. They were married in secret, by the High Septon on the Isle of Faces, before they disappeared into Dorne. Then we received word of your father and brother's deaths. Lyanna was devastated. Rhaegar knew he had to act—he rode to the Trident…" Arthur's voice faltered. "And that was the last we saw of him."

The silence that followed was heavy. Ned stood there, Gaemon cradled in his arms, his mind reeling.

"You understand I can't just proclaim the boy a trueborn Targaryen," Ned said quietly. "The Lannisters—and Robert—would stop at nothing to see him dead."

Arthur nodded. "I do. Perhaps I could take him across the Narrow Sea, raise him in exile… with his uncle and grandmother."

Ned shook his head firmly. "No. I made a promise to my sister. I won't have him living in squalor, hunted by cutthroats and slavers."

He glanced down at the child in his arms. Despite the mismatched eyes, he looked so much like a Stark.

"I'll say he's my bastard," Ned said at last. "Fathered on a camp follower during the war."

"You'd name the rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms a bastard?" Arthur barked, trying to rise but wincing as pain from his injuries forced him back down.

"The boy is no king," Ned snapped. "His family was overthrown. Would you have me parade him around, only to see him butchered in his sleep by the Lannisters?"

Howland quickly stepped between them, raising his hands to calm the tension.

Ned began pacing, his mind racing. He handed the babe off to Howland, who gently rocked the child in his arms.

"Ned… what about the eyes?" Howland asked. "He may look like a Stark, but those eyes are unmistakable."

Ned paused, lips pressed thin. He didn't have an answer.

"My sister," Arthur interjected suddenly.

Both Ned and Howland turned to him.

"Say he's my sister's. Ashara just gave birth to a stillborn girl—only a few know of it. You danced with her at Harrenhal. It wouldn't be much of a stretch for people to assume more happened."

Ned frowned. "Nothing happened between us. She was more taken with Brandon in the end."

"It doesn't matter," Arthur said. "It's what people will believe."

The words weighed heavily on Ned. To drag Ashara's name through the mud—again—felt like one betrayal too many. But in the end, he nodded. There was no other way.

Afterward, they buried the dead, and gathered the documents and keepsakes kept in the Tower. The quiet was suffocating. Ned couldn't stop thinking of the lives lost to a lie, to misunderstandings that might have been mended with words instead of swords.

They rode at a slow pace toward Starfall, stopping briefly in a small village to find a wet nurse for Gaemon—now known as Jon Snow. By the time they reached the castle, Arthur had already arrived a day earlier, slipping in through a secret passage to keep his identity a secret. Ned and Howland approached the gates openly, requesting entrance. After a tense pause, it was reluctantly granted.

Lady Ashara Dayne met them in the courtyard. A shadow of grief clung to her features, her beauty tempered by sorrow. She greeted them politely—but there was a sharpness to her tone, a quiet fury buried beneath her composure.

That night, the four of them gathered in a secluded room, far from the ears of Starfall's inhabitants. Ashara paced back and forth while the three men sat silently, the weight of what they were about to ask pressing down on them all.

"And this," she said at last, her voice tight, "is the only plan you could come up with?"

Ned rose from his seat. "It is, my lady. I know you've suffered more than any of us can imagine—but I must ask you for this favor. For my sister. For her son."

Ashara turned to Arthur, her expression unreadable. "And you? You're alright with this?"

Arthur nodded solemnly. "If it keeps the boy safe, then yes. I am. Please, Ash… help us."

She looked at them for a long moment, her gaze lingering on the swaddled child in Howland's arms. Then she exhaled a slow, weary sigh.

"Fine," she said quietly. "I'll do it."

The next morning, they departed Starfall. Dawn was returned to Lord Alaric, one of the few entrusted with the truth of Arthur's survival and the boy's identity. The lord swore a solemn oath to keep the secret.

They docked at Seagard and soon parted ways. At Greywater Watch, the group split. Ned and Jon made their way north toward Winterfell, while Arthur and Ashara remained behind to lay low, sheltered under Howland Reed's protection.

Ned sighed in relief as he crested the hill, the tall, imposing walls of Winterfell rising in the distance like a promise kept.

The great ironwood gates groaned open as he approached, Jon cradled in the wet nurse's arms, and Lyanna's body wrapped in cloth laying in a cart. At the gates, his wife and brother awaited him.

"Ned!" Benjen rushed forward, pulling him into a tight embrace. Tears ran down the young Stark's face as the last two children of Rickard Stark reunited.

"Ben… it's good to see you," Ned murmured, gripping his brother's shoulders and looking into his eyes. He had left a boy behind—but now, Benjen was well on his way to becoming a man.

Ben's eyes landed on the body wrapped in the cart, "Is… is that her?"

Ned just nodded solemnly, which caused Benjen to break down even more.

Catelyn stepped forward next, her expression cautiously warm as she watched the reunion.

"Lord Husband," she said with a practiced curtsey.

Ned bowed slightly and kissed her hand. "Where's Robb?"

"In the nursery," she replied. "I didn't wish to wake him—he just went down for his nap."

Ned nodded, turning to Vayon Poole, who stood nearby among the assembled staff.

"See that Wylla and Jon are taken to the nursery," he instructed, gesturing to the wet nurse. She shivered slightly in the northern chill, a tightly wrapped bundle held close to her chest.

Catelyn's brow furrowed. "Jon, Lord Husband?"

Ned exhaled, bracing himself. "Aye. My bastard. Jon Snow."

The warmth in her eyes vanished, replaced by a frozen calm. Her lips pressed into a tight line.

"I'll be in my chambers," she said coldly, before turning on her heel and walking off.

Ned rubbed the bridge of his nose, already feeling the ache of what lay ahead.

That night, after a subdued feast, he sat in the quiet of the nursery. In the dim candlelight, he watched his son and nephew—Robb and Jon—curled up beside each other, sleeping peacefully, unaware of the burdens the world had placed upon them.

Catelyn still hadn't spoken to him. Her silence would stretch on for moons, he knew. Benjen, consumed by guilt, had already confessed his intent to join the Night's Watch after having a small service for their sister on the morrow.

Ned couldn't blame him. Everywhere he looked, he too saw the ghosts of the past.

But here, in this quiet room, were two small lights in the darkness. The future of House Stark. And Ned swore, right then and there, that he would protect them—no matter the cost. What had happened to him would never happen to them. He would make sure of it.

He stood to leave, his cloak trailing behind him—never noticing the shadow perched high above.

A large, silent raven with three eyes watched from the rafters, its eyes dark and knowing as it gazed at the dark haired boy.