Author's Note: Just something I wrote because Jon being named Aegon just doesn't sit well with me. Lame story title, I know, but I couldn't come up with anything, really. This is something I typed up in barely fifteen minutes, in a rather sleep-deprived and over-worked state. So do forgive the errors, if any :)

She can hear it, the swords clashing, the sudden scream of fatal agony, the sound of a horse neighing in fright, the clash, clash, clash of Dawn on steel, the loud cries of the babe.

"Ned!" She calls out loudly with what's left of her strength, clutching the dead rose petals in her hand tighter. "Ned! Ned!"

Her voice gives away… she does not have strength enough.

"My lady," sobs the frightened wet-nurse. Wylla, was she called? Lyanna cannot remember, and it doesn't matter anyway… not when Ned is here, so near yet so far…

Let me see him once, you old gods, she prays, don't let Ser Arthur kill him, let me see my brother… it is all I ask for… She wonders hazily whether the old gods will listen to her. They haven't yet heard her prayers once. Not when she cried and screamed her heart out, asking for Rhaegar and Ser Arthur to let her leave the tower and go home, not when she pleaded with Rhaegar to not go to war against Ned, not when all she wanted was to go home to Benjen, to Ned, to sob over Father and Brandon in the crypts.

i shall be with you soon, Bran, she thinks, black spots dancing in her vision, I am coming to you, Father. Forgive me, forgive me for all I did, for all that you lost, for how you died…

"Bran," she whispers with the last of her strength. "Bran…"

But it isn't Bran. It's Ned… long-faced and solemn and with blood splattered on his armour… it's Ned, her sweetest, beloved brother.

"Lyanna," he whispers, grey eyes glistening with tears… grey eyes, Father's eyes… I am coming, Father… I am coming to be with you, Bran… wait for me…

"Lyanna, you shall be fine, Lya… I'm here to take you home," says Ned.

She chuckles, or she tries to, rather. It only saps more of her strength. He has always been like that, Ned, always there for her, always there to encourage her, to console her… but not today. He won't take her home, she knows, she will be long gone by then…

"Lya," says Ned.

She puts her hand on his cheek… it takes too much effort. She is so tired… she cannot wait to go off to sleep, forever, go to Father and Brandon, dead because of me… all those men who died in the war, dead because of me… forgive me, gods, I did not mean it, none of it… all I wanted was to be free… I never knew this would be the cost.

She thinks of father roasting alive in his armour, she thinks of the cord digging into Bran's throat, his last strangled breaths as he tries to reach for the sword to save Father, she thinks of Princess Elia, raped and murdered, her little babes butchered, she thinks of the silver-haired prince she trusted, the man who turned his back on his wife and trueborn children, the man she fell for and eloped with, the man whose quest for fulfilling the dratted prophecy made the realm burn… my fault, she thinks, I should never have run away, I should never have fallen for him, I should never have trusted him…

Ned is saying something, but she cannot hear him. The babe is still crying… all for nothing, she thinks, not the Visenya you wanted, Rhaegar, but a boy.

"Lya," says Ned. Tears trickle down on her hand which is still on his cheek. He takes her hand, clasping it between both of his… his hands are cold, so cold, they remind her of home, of Winterfell, of racing in the barrowlands with Brandon and playing at swords with Benjen in the godswood, listening to Old Nan's stories at night, Father kissing her brow, laying winter roses on Mother's grave, the heart tree gazing at her with its ancient, all-knowing eyes…

"Don't die, Lya," sobs Ned softly. "Please, Lya, don't leave me. I won't let you die. We'll go home. To Winterfell. We'll— "

"Promise me, Ned," she whispers to him, her heart breaking for this brother of hers who went to war for her, who lost his father and his brother and will lose his only sister now, the brother who always did his duty. I should have been like you, Ned, I should have done my duty and kept my honour…

"My babe, Rhaegar's boy," she says, her voice sounding faint to her own ears. "Keep him safe, Ned. Don't let Robert have him. Promise me, Ned."

"I will, Lya, I will. We shall take him home together. We shall keep him safe together. You're his mother, he needs you." Ned clutches her hand tighter. The rose petals she has held on for so long spill from her palm, dark and dead. But she doesn't mind, not now. She held on to them not because they were from the wreath Rhaegar placed on her head that fateful day at Harrenhall, but because they remind her of home, of the cold and the wolfswood, of the heart tree, of Winterfell, which is where she truly belongs.

I should never have left, Father, I should never have run away.

"Sorry, Ned," she tells him, but she's smiling now. She knows the time has come. She knows Ned will keep her boy safe. She can die in peace now.

"What is his name?" asks Ned softly, and she knows that her brother has realised that she won't make the journey back home alive.

She watches him with half-lidded eyes. I am so tired. She wonders when Ned let go of her hand, wonders when the wet-nurse handed the babe over to Ned, and she smiles at how carefully her brother holds her son… they even look alike, although her sight is turning hazy now… dark-haired, both of them, with long faces, Stark faces, they have the wolfblood in them… like Brandon, like me… even their glistening grey eyes are identical, Ned's eyes teary because he knows he is about to lose his only sister… and the babe's because–he won't even remember me, she thinks tiredly, he shall never know me, his mother.

"What is his name, Lya?" Ned asks her again.

She shall be named Visenya, she remembers Rhaegar telling her, his hand on her swollen belly. She shall be the third head of the dragon.

It was all in vain, Lyanna thinks sadly, it was all in vain, Rhaegar, your prophecy… two of your dragons are gone, Rhaegar, your children are dead… dead because of our folly, because I was naive and stupid, and you hungered after that damned prophecy… stupid, so stupid…

Ned says something to her… she can barely hear him, though. She can feel it, the strength seeping out of her, the pain so overpowering that she cannot wait to die… blood, so much blood...

Aegon, she thinks in a daze, his name was Aegon, and his was the song of ice and fire… Rhaegar and Elia's son… But she will not name her child that. She has hurt and shamed Princess Elia enough. She will not tar her memory by naming her son after the Princess' murdered child... dead because of me...

She will not give her son a Targaryen name. He may have been born of a dragon's seed, but her son will be a wolf, like her, like Brandon, like Ned, like all the Starks of old…

I shall name him after you, Brandon, or Rickard, after Father. But she can't… I don't deserve to, she thinks brokenly, they both died for me, they died because Rhaegar wanted this babe… Oh, she wants it so bad, for her son to be named for her brave father, for her beloved brother… They belong to Ned, the names… they are Stark names… let Ned have a son one day… a Brandon Stark who shall be the lord his uncle never got to be…

"Give him a good name," she whispers to Ned, "He is a wolf, Ned. T—ake him home to W—winterfell…"

Ned's face turns blurry, darkness taking over her vision now. The babe cries louder and louder, but from oh so far away.

He knows I'm dying, she thinks, the babe knows I'm dying. I'm so sorry, Ned, Bran, Ben, Father…

"Promise me, Ned," she whispers, "P—promise m—"

"What shall you call him?" asks Howand Reed quietly, as Ned sits with the babe in his arms. The Tower of Joy is torn down, but Lyanna's cries and her last words still echo in his ears.

"Jon," says Ned quietly.

"After King Jon Stark?" asks Howland quietly, though they both know that isn't true.

"After Jon Arryn… one of the best men I know," says Ned. "I shall be as good a father to this babe as Jon is to me."

"Jon," says Howland softly, looking down at the boy.

"Jon Snow," says Ned, as the babe watches him with his grey eyes. "Jon Snow, my little wolf."