There were many scenarios that had flown through Eddard Stark's mind as he and Howland Reed had ascended the Tower of Joy in pursuit of his sister, and the agonized shriek that pierced the thick stone walls only made these thoughts run wild to the point of blurring together. Had he arrived too late? Had this cry been her last, her exit from mortality? Was she, at this very moment, being violated? Tortured? Both? Dead, raped, tortured, raped, tortured, dead. What had once been a squall of monstrous ideas had quickly evolved into a hellish storm, causing his already spinning head to pound. It was almost as if they were fighting their way out of the confines of his imagination, fighting to break free and manifest themselves in a reality too dark for even the worst of nightmares.

All of these things and more had presented themselves to him during the ascent, but the vision that had greeted him upon their arrival had not been one of them.

Lyanna lay in a featherbed that held silken sheets wearing the same shade of pale blue as the winter roses she so loved, the lifeblood flowing from between her legs slowly, steadily staining them crimson. A sheen of sweat covered her from head to foot, locks of dark hair sticking to her sickly, pale face. She held a babe at her breast, still wet from the womb, who nursed eagerly as the midwife carried the afterbirth away. Weakly, she turned her blanched visage to meet his, her tired grey eyes growing wide with shock and even fear at the sight of them.

"Ned," she quietly began, her voice trembling from exhaustion and terror, "is Robert with you?"

The question startled him nearly as much as the panic in her expression. It was unlike Lyanna to be so openly afraid. Trying to relieve both her anxieties and his own, he jested, "Am I really so haggard as to disturb you so much? I've not bathed in quite a while, I know-"

"Is Robert with you?"

She would have yelled the words at him, had her broken body held the strength to.

He never had shared their brother Brandon's gifts for talk and jests. "No. He and his forces are still in King's Landing."

All of the tension and dread vanished from her, a relieved sigh escaping her lips. "It's good to see you, brother," she said faintly as a small smile appeared. "I've missed you." He rushed over to her, kneeling beside her and kissing her forehead. Her skin was as that of a freshly shucked clam, and he knew immediately how grave her condition truly was. He looked again at the great red pool forming in the middle of her bed, and realized that in the few moments that had passed, its borders had spread by at least another inch. Even if a maester should be called, she would be gone long before he arrived.

"Lord Reed," he implored, keeping as much emotion out of his voice as possible, "May we have a moment?"

The crannogman's mouth hung open for a spell, whether from shock or the want to say something, Eddard could not be sure. Mercifully, he simply nodded and replied, "Of course, my lord," shutting the door behind him as he left.

"I've come to take you home," he said, his words barely more than a whisper. Even as she still smiled, sorrow crept into her brow and warm, gentle rain fell from the grey clouds of her eyes onto the pillow beneath her head.

"My flesh and my bones will gladly go, but I'm like to remain here."

Anger and grief welled up inside him, tightening his chest as he laid his right hand atop one of hers and rasped, "I wish I'd had the chance to kill Rhaegar myself. A clean death was more than that raping bastard deserved." His fury quickly turned into blinding awe and confusion at her reply.

"Rhaegar did nothing... that I did not allow him to do. Have you ever... known me to be... subject to the wills of another?"

Realization dawned on him in a sudden blinding flash, and for one brief instant, the hot flame of life that had always been present in his sister returned, and she was the Lyanna he'd known all his years. As her smile broadened, Ned's lips formed a grin of their own; in a way, this made more sense than the idea of her being kidnapped. She always had been wolf-blooded; far too wild to be captured, and fearless enough to follow her own road, whatever the consequence.

"In ways, he was... almost a bit like you, Ned. Rhaegar, I mean."

The moment, as all others like it, was too short lived. Her expression grew sad and somber as she languidly removed her right arm from around her child, entwining her fingers with Ned's and gripping them as tightly as she could. Her suckling babe likely had more strength in his or her fingers than she had in her own.

"What of Robert," he asked. "What of your betrothal?"

"You know the answer to that as well as I... and I haven't the time to waste on it." Desperate appeal seized her features, grabbing him in a hold her cold hands couldn't hope to equal. "I need you to... take him with you... take Jon to Winterfell... keep him safe."

Her breaths had grown shallow, both her dying mortal shell and her voice in terrible tremors by now, and the stain on the bed had grown another three inches wider, making it nearly a foot in diameter. Her tears had returned in torrents, and raw fear resurfaced as Lyanna insisted, "Robert must never know."

"He won't," Ned reassured her. She was slipping away before him, the light in her eyes almost completely extinguished as he helplessly looked on.

"Tell him who is... when he's older..."

"I will."

"Promise me... you'll do all that I've asked."

"How? How will I get him to Winterfell without question-"

"Promise me, Ned."

It was hardly a whisper. Had he not been beside her, it may have eluded his hearing altogether. He had no idea how he was going to conceal the boy all the long ride to Winterfell, protect him from his oldest friend, hide everything he'd learned in this tower from the world, but the words rolled off his tongue all the same.

"I promise. I swear it by the Old Gods, my honor, and my life."

Not two seconds later, a deep, long exhale escaped her, and a look of peace fixed itself upon her. Her eyes remained on him, but all life had fled them. He hadn't even noticed that the midwife had returned until he heard her hushed words, "I'll send for a maester to assess the boy's health." His head jerked to meet her gaze, the next words out of his mouth stunning even him with their sharpness.

"No," he barked, "you'll send for the Silent Sisters, and a wetnurse. She'll be cleaned, redressed, and on her way to Winterfell before the maester arrives. No one can know of this."

The woman had meant no ill, he knew, and he immediately regretted being so cross. She couldn't have seen more than thirty namedays, but her forehead and brow were wrinked enough to make her look nearly twenty years older. Somewhat broad shoulders were accompanied by broader hips, making for an odd match to her small, heart-shaped face and fine, mousy hair that closely resembled the color of dry dirt. Not a comely girl, by any means, but she seemed kind enough. If she'd taken offense to his brusque behavior, she hid it well.

"Yes, m'lord. We've had a wetnurse on hand here for several fortnights. Wylla, her name is. I'll fetch her now." The soft scuttle of her steps echoed in the large, empty bedchamber as she exited the room. He rose to his feet, head swimming in a sea of grief, anxiety, and dread. He stooped over his sister's lifeless corpse, removing the small, dark-haired boy from her breast, gingerly cradling him in his own arms as pale grey orbs looked him over thoroughly. Robbed of his meal, Jon began to loudly wail, which only served to further provoke Eddard's raw nerves. How in the seven hells was he going to escort a newborn from Dorne to Winterfell? What would he tell his lady wife, Robert Baratheon, and every other person who asked what he was doing with a stranger's child? Why this child was supping in his halls, being trained for combat with his steel, and treated with every other luxury that would be given to his own children?

"Here she is, m'lord." Wylla, as it happened, appeared to be about Lyanna's age, with waves of chestnut hair that fell gracefully over her shoulders, nearly reaching the small of her back. Soft brown eyes complimented her cream-colored skin beautifully, her oval face also boasting pink, pouty lips. "My lord," she adressed him in a voice as sweet as honey, her curvy hips swaying slightly as she approached him to care for the lad in his arms. She was comely enough, no doubt. 'Had Robert been here, she'd be with child by week's end.'

It was at this moment that the epiphany struck him. Would it be so hard to believe that staunch, honor-obsessed Eddard Stark had experienced a moment of weakness, especially with a lovely young girl such as this? To look at the boy, one would plainly see the strong features of House Stark; he bore neither the silver-gold hair nor the amethyst eyes of House Targaryen. Surely, he could pass the boy off as his own. As he delicately handed the child to her, he spoke to Wylla in the gentlest, most even tone he could manage.

"You'll nurse him as your own son until I return for him, and claim him as your own should anyone ask. Tell them I fathered him on you. You'll be paid well for your service, as well as your silence in the truth of the matter."

"Yes, my lord," she said politely, smiling knowingly as she latched the boy onto her round, supple teat. She moved to sit in one of the nearby armchairs when Ned interrupted her, sending her into the room from whence she'd come to give him a moment alone.

He knelt beside his sister once again. His hands stretched over the front of his face as his frame began to quake. Cold, unfeeling, aloof, somber Ned Stark hadn't so much as shed a tear since he was three, not even after the deaths of his lady mother, his lord father, or his brother Brandon. In the presence of none but the dead, this same Ned Stark howled and rocked, sobbing like a child once more.