The Throne Room was quieter now, almost like everyone had collectively held their breath after the chaos. As soon as you think everything's going to calm down, of course, the door creaks open with all the subtlety of a bull in a china shop. In walked Jaime Lannister. Well, sort of. There he was, looking every bit the same as always—blond hair, smug expression, the works—except... yeah, there was that tiny detail of one hand missing. Not just a little cut either. Nope. He was wrapped up in bandages that were so soaked in blood, it looked like he'd tried to wrestle a dragon.
And just to add to the drama, Jaime was limping, and behind him, in a move that screamed "just let the big guy do the heavy lifting," was Lord Greatjon Umber. The man was so massive, you'd think he was trying to smuggle an entire mountain through the door.
Jaime, for all his missing hand drama, stood tall. His face looked like someone who'd lost a fight with a wall, but he held it together. "Princess Elia and her children are secure," he said, voice so calm you'd think he was announcing the weather forecast. "They're under guard. Safe. No one's going to touch them."
Lord Greatjon Umber, who had a face like a bear that forgot to shave for a hundred years, gave a grunt of agreement. "No one's touching them while I'm breathing," he growled, looking like the entire Throne Room could just fall apart if he hiccupped.
Tywin Lannister's icy gaze slid toward Jaime's missing hand, and his expression could've made a snowman cry. "What happened?" he asked, voice colder than a freezer.
Jaime, who clearly wasn't in the mood for his father's interrogation, met his stare with an eyebrow raise that said, Really? You're really going to do this now? "Ser Gregor and Ser Amory Lorch decided to try something with Princess Elia and her kids," Jaime said, sounding almost casual, as if getting into a sword fight with a giant and losing a hand was just a day's work. "I stopped them. Lorch is dead, and the Mountain..." He gave his bandaged hand a pointed glance, clearly still not loving the idea of looking at it. "Well, with Lord Umber's help, the Mountain doesn't exactly ride anymore."
Tywin narrowed his eyes, his face a mask of unreadable stone. "And your hand?" He said it like it was an afterthought—but definitely not one that should've been dismissed.
Jaime let out a long sigh, like he was explaining something obvious to a toddler. "The price of doing what's right," he said. "Princess Elia and her children are alive because of it."
At that point, Robert Baratheon, looking like he'd had one too many drinks (which, let's be real, he probably had), turned to Tywin with a furrowed brow. "You did well, Ser Jaime," he said grudgingly, like the words were physically painful to say. "Elia Martell's alive, and that's more than we can say for most people around here."
Tywin, on the other hand, looked about as impressed as if someone had handed him a wet sock. "We'll discuss this later," he said, dismissing Jaime's hand situation like it was a fly buzzing around his ear. "Get that hand looked at."
Jaime, who clearly had had enough of this family drama for one day, gave a sarcastic nod. "Sure thing, Father," he muttered, spinning on his heel and starting to walk out like someone trying to make a dramatic exit from a bad soap opera.
As the door creaked shut behind him, Greatjon Umber was left standing there like an entire mountain of angry muscle. And for a second, everyone just paused. When Greatjon speaks, people tend to listen. Mostly because his voice could probably level a village.
"Ned," Greatjon rumbled, turning to the Stark lord with a glint in his eye that promised nothing good for anyone who'd cross him, "I heard word of the princess and her children. They'll be safe in the North. You have my word."
Ned nodded, way too eager to hand over responsibility to the one guy in the room who looked like he could bench press a castle. "You're going to be in charge of getting them to Winterfell," he said, locking eyes with Greatjon. "No one touches them. Got it?"
Greatjon's eyes practically glowed with excitement at the thought of unleashing chaos on anyone who tried to mess with Princess Elia. "No harm will come to them, Ned," he boomed, like someone who had just received a challenge and was fully prepared to meet it head-on. "You've got my oath. They'll be as safe as my own blood."
Ned gave a little sigh of relief. He wasn't entirely sure if Greatjon was joking, but at the end of the day, when a guy who could crush boulders with his bare hands says you're safe, you just believe him.
Just when Ned thought the room couldn't get more chaotic, Tywin Lannister slid back into the conversation like a snake in a tuxedo. He sidled right up to Robert Baratheon, looking like the embodiment of calm menace. "Your Grace," he said, his voice smooth as butter, "there's the matter of Jaime's future. His hand's gone. He can't exactly wield a sword anymore."
Robert, looking like someone who was way too tired to care about any of this, rubbed his temples like he was about to nap. "What do you want, Tywin?" he grumbled, clearly already bored with whatever this was going to be.
Tywin, smooth as ever, didn't miss a beat. "Release him from his vows," he said, like he was suggesting a weekend getaway instead of a major political shift. "He can't serve you anymore with one hand. Let him return to Casterly Rock, where he can do what needs doing for House Lannister."
Ned, who was about to grab some popcorn and settle in for the show, leaned back in his chair, already suspecting that this was going to get a lot more complicated. "Your Grace, letting Jaime go back to Casterly Rock would be a fair gesture. He did, after all, kill Aerys Targaryen."
Robert, who clearly did not want to be involved in this today, just stared at Jon Arryn with an expression that said he was counting down the minutes until the next feast. "Fine, whatever. He can go home. He's not the Kingsguard anymore. I'm tired of hearing about this."
Tywin, on the other hand, gave him a rare nod of approval. "Thank you, Your Grace," he said, as if Robert had just handed him the keys to the kingdom. "I appreciate your understanding."
And just like that, Jaime was going to get an extended holiday back at Casterly Rock. As if his father wasn't already managing to turn everything into a power play.
But before anyone could properly recover from that bombshell, Jon Arryn, who'd been standing quietly, stepped forward, his face grim. "Ned," he said, lowering his voice like this was definitely not good news, "I've learned something about your sister. Lyanna."
Ned's heart lurched in his chest, because, let's be honest, nothing good had come up when Lyanna's name was mentioned. "What is it?" he asked, trying to mask the panic that was creeping into his voice.
Jon Arryn's face darkened as if the weight of the information was too much to bear. "She's alive. And she's being kept at the Tower of Joy, guarded by Ser Arthur Dayne, Ser Oswell Whent, and Lord Commander Gerold Hightower."
Ned's brain short-circuited for a moment. Alive? Alive? Alive? His sister, the one whose abduction had started a damn war, was still breathing?
"I have to go to her," he said, his voice a cocktail of rage and hope that was starting to simmer dangerously.
Jon Arryn nodded somberly. "I thought you might say that. I'll make sure the path is clear for you, but be careful. There are too many eyes on us."
Ned, who was already mentally packing for a journey that could either be a blessing or a death sentence, nodded grimly. "I won't forget this, Jon," he said, voice thick with gratitude.
Jon gave him a tired, sad smile. "Just get her back, Ned. The rest of us will figure it out."
Ned turned to leave, but then paused. Something about the moment felt like it demanded something more. He looked back at Jon, a flicker of respect passing between them. "Stay safe," he said, his voice softer now, almost uncertain.
Jon, whose role in all of this was far less certain than it seemed, gave a little salute. "We all have our burdens to bear. But you've got the hard one now."
With that, Ned was off, the weight of his family's future hanging on every step. The Tower of Joy awaited—and with it, answers to questions that had haunted him for years.
And yeah, you could probably guess how this whole thing was about to get a whole lot worse before it got any better.
—
The sun was a fiery beast in the sky, making Dorne feel more like a furnace than a kingdom. Each step felt like an act of defiance against the heat, as Ned Stark and his crew trudged through the desert landscape. If there was ever a time to contemplate the meaning of life, it was now, with sweat pouring down their faces and the air around them as thick as a bad stew. And yet, despite the discomfort, each of them was convinced that they were about to uncover something far worse than sunburns and sand in places they'd rather not think about.
There was Howland Reed, the kind of guy who'd avoid eye contact with everyone—especially when his life depended on it. He had that look about him, like he was always a step away from disappearing into the shadows. The guy probably had an entire library of "How to Not Look At People" books.
Ethan Glover was next. A man who, quite frankly, looked like he'd rather be anywhere but here. He wasn't particularly upset about the desert—more like the fact that he was stuck in this mess instead of enjoying a warm bed, a mug of ale, and a nice, long nap.
Then there were Ser Mark Ryswell and Theo Wull. Now, those two? Their names sounded like they'd been picked at random from a "Fantasy Names for Dummies" book. They weren't bad men, just, well...forgettable. Like the kind of guys you'd meet at a tavern and forget about by morning.
Martyn Cassel, bless him, was tagging along, looking like he had no idea how he ended up on this trip. He wasn't complaining, which was either bravery or stupidity. Ned couldn't tell which.
And finally, there was Lord William Dustin, who looked about as thrilled to be in Dorne as a cat in a bath. But he wasn't complaining either, which meant the poor guy was probably saving it all for later.
One thing they all had in common, though? They all believed the Tower of Joy wasn't going to live up to its name. If anything, it was probably going to be more like the Tower of Disappointment, maybe with a side of regret.
As they approached the tower, the heat was like a physical presence, pressing against them from all sides. Ned felt like he was melting. The tower itself looked...well, not much like a joy at all. It was tall, imposing, and way too old to be anything other than slightly creepy.
Standing guard at the foot of the tower were Ser Oswell Whent and Lord Commander Gerold Hightower. Both men were as still as statues, their armor gleaming in the sun as if daring anyone to make a move. If you wanted to test someone's willpower, just stare at these two for five minutes. They could make a statue feel like a chatty best friend in comparison.
"So," Ned began, trying to break the silence, "where's Ser Arthur Dayne? The famous Sword of the Morning, the guy who can cut a man in half before he even knows he's been sliced? That guy?"
Lord Commander Hightower—who looked like someone had carved him out of a block of ice—gave Ned a look that could freeze fire. "Ser Arthur is...unavailable," he said, his voice colder than a snowstorm in the middle of winter.
Ned blinked. "Unavailable?" he repeated, raising an eyebrow. "What, did he get lost on the way here? Or is he off on a secret quest to find himself in the middle of the desert?"
There was no response. Ser Oswell Whent, standing like a silent rock next to Hightower, didn't even flinch. If anything, he looked even more uncomfortable than usual, but he wasn't about to say anything.
"Some matters are beyond your concern, Lord Stark," Hightower said, his tone so final that it was like he was giving Ned permission to drop dead right there.
"Really?" Ned shot back, crossing his arms. "I've walked halfway across Dorne, through more sand than I ever care to see again, and now you're telling me I can't ask where the guy with the fancy sword went?" He made a show of glancing at his companions. "That's not how this works, is it?"
Mark Ryswell, trying to ease the tension, chimed in, "I mean, we did walk a long way. It's not like we're asking for the world. Just a little bit of information."
Theo Wull nodded in agreement. "You'd think 'unavailable' would come with a little explanation, don't you?"
Martyn Cassel was just happy to be standing still. "I'm gonna need a drink after this. Or a nap. Or both."
Lord William Dustin, not one to back down from anything, added, "We didn't come this far to be told 'no'."
But it was Howland Reed—always the quiet one—who spoke up, his voice barely above a whisper. "This isn't about us, you know. It's about her."
The silence that followed was thick enough to cut with a sword.
Ned's stomach did that weird flip-flop thing it always did whenever his sister was mentioned, even after all these years. Lyanna. His mind was already racing ahead, thinking of the moment they'd finally reach the truth.
Before anyone else could speak, a voice rang out from above, high and clear—like a bell tolling in the distance. It was so familiar that it made Ned's heart skip a beat.
"Enough, Ser Gerold," the voice called down. "Let them in."
And that voice? Ned would recognize it anywhere. It was Lyanna's.
Every single person froze. The kind of frozen where your heart does a weird little jump, like it's suddenly remembering its job to keep beating. No one said a word. They didn't have to. The truth was finally within reach, and it didn't matter how much Dorne had tried to beat them down; they were getting it.
"Well," Ethan Glover said, breaking the tension with his usual sarcastic grin, "this is either the best thing that's happened all day or the worst. Either way, we're going to need a drink."
Mark Ryswell raised an eyebrow. "We haven't even gotten in the door yet, and you're already thinking about drinks?"
Ethan shrugged. "I'm an optimist."
Ned, however, was done with banter for the moment. His hand clenched into a fist, his jaw set with grim determination. It was time to find out exactly what secrets the Tower of Joy had been hiding all these years.
And the truth? Oh, the truth wasn't going to be simple. But if there was one thing a Stark was good at, it was facing the truth head-on—even if it knocked the wind out of them.
—
The Tower of Joy. Yeah, you'd think with a name like that, it'd be all sunshine and rainbows, right? Maybe a couple of harp-playing bards, some punch, maybe even a little impromptu dance-off. But nope. If the tower had a name change option, it'd probably be called Tower of Awkward Family Drama and Secrets So Huge You Could Probably Fit a Dragon Inside Them.
Ned Stark's brain, which had been hanging on by a thread for the past few hours, finally snapped as he laid eyes on the scene before him. Ser Arthur Dayne—he of the Sword of the Morning fame—was standing tall beside a woman so elegant and icy she could probably freeze the sun with a single glance. That was Lady Ashara Dayne, by the way. If she were any more serene, she'd have to be a statue. Meanwhile, a toddler was at her feet, giggling like he didn't have a care in the world, which was probably for the best, considering the level of existential crisis the rest of them were going through.
And then there was Lyanna. His sister. The same one who'd been missing for years, the one who caused a whole civil war with her disappearance, and here she was, looking pale, tired, and—Ned's brain could barely comprehend it—alive. Oh, and she was holding a baby. A baby who, judging by the odd mix of horror and disbelief on Ned's face, had just thrown the entire Stark family timeline into complete chaos.
Ned took a step forward, his boots dragging like a man who had just been hit by a wagon full of inconvenient truths. His mouth opened, but no words came out. Finally, he managed a strangled, "Oh no."
He hadn't realized he'd said that aloud until Lyanna, with all the nonchalance of someone casually brushing dirt off their shoes, spoke up. "Ned, calm down. You look like you've just seen a White Walker."
Ned blinked at her, hoping that maybe this was just some weird fever dream, but nope, Lyanna was as real as ever. "Did Rhaegar—did he—?" He couldn't even finish the question. He felt like his insides were running for cover.
Lyanna's eyebrow quirked. "What? No! Gods, Ned, I'm not some tragic damsel in a song. Put that thought right back where it came from." She sighed, rolling her eyes like she was dealing with a particularly dense child. "Rhaegar, Elia, and I—well, we loved each other. Happy now?"
Ned's jaw dropped. If his brain had been a computer before, it was now completely fried. He shook his head as if that would somehow make the words go away. "Loved? Lyanna, you ran away! You didn't tell anyone where you were going! You started a war!"
"Uh, no," she said, throwing him a look that said please don't make me explain this again. "I didn't run away. I eloped. Big difference. And I left a note!" She shot a glance at Arthur Dayne, who nodded like he'd heard this story a hundred times.
"The letter vanished," Arthur said, his voice solemn, like he was giving the most serious speech ever delivered at a birthday party. "Perhaps burned. Perhaps intercepted. We'll never know."
Ned blinked again. "A note?"
"Yeah," Lyanna said, giving him a 'duh' look. "'Dear Dad, don't marry me off to Robert, I'm in love with a prince. PS: Don't freak out.' That kind of thing."
Ned let out a long, tortured groan. "Great. So while you were off having secret weddings and whispering sweet nothings to Targaryens, the rest of us were busy getting murdered in the streets, huh?"
"Sorry?" Lyanna's face said she wasn't really that sorry, but she tried anyway. "I didn't think it would get that bad." She hesitated, glancing at her baby. "But, Ned, you have to believe me. Rhaegar wanted to do right by me. By us. He married me in the old way—at the Isle of Faces."
Ned's jaw worked for a moment as if he was trying to physically reassemble his shattered thoughts. "And Elia? His first wife? What happened to them?"
Arthur's face darkened, the usual calm demeanor slipping for just a second. "Rhaegar meant to protect them. But... things didn't go as planned. The war... well, it consumed everything."
Ned's voice dropped low, like he didn't even want to say it aloud. "Elia and her children are alive?"
Arthur's eyes widened for just a second—like someone had dropped a heavy rock in a still pond. "Alive?" He was momentarily thrown off his game, but then he regained his composure. "You're sure?"
"They're wards of Winterfell now," Ned said, like it wasn't the most awkward thing he'd ever had to say. "Robert decreed it. So, for the record, they're under Stark protection. That's a thing now."
For a moment, Arthur stared, as if trying to figure out whether he had somehow wandered into an alternate reality. But then, finally, he nodded, a slow, respectful gesture. "Thank you," he said, like Ned had just given him a dragon egg or something.
Ned wasn't used to hearing that from Ser Arthur Dayne. It felt... weird. But before he could dwell on the oddity, Lyanna suddenly shoved the baby into his arms like she had just handed him a loaf of bread. "Ned, meet your nephew," she said softly, "Jaecaerys Targaryen."
Ned froze. He stood there, clutching the squirming bundle like he was about to break it. "He's so... small," he said, his voice high-pitched from the shock.
Lyanna shot him a look that clearly said, get a grip. "Babies tend to be small, Ned."
Jaecaerys, who had clearly inherited the Targaryen ability to sleep through every crisis, yawned and stared up at him like he had better things to do than entertain the Stark family reunion.
Ned stared down at the baby. "Jaecaerys... what do you expect me to do with him? Raise him in Winterfell? Hide him from Robert forever?"
Lyanna's expression softened, the motherly concern clear in her eyes. "Protect him," she said simply. "That's all I ask. Protect him like he's your own."
Ned swallowed hard. He looked down at the baby, feeling a sudden weight settle on his shoulders. This was Rhaegar's son. Lyanna's son. His nephew. A Targaryen prince. And, damn it, if there was one thing a Stark knew how to do, it was protect what was theirs.
With a deep breath, he looked up at Lyanna and made a silent vow. Stark blood or not, Jaecaerys Targaryen was going to live a long, safe life.
And nobody, not even Robert Baratheon, was going to stop him.
—
Ned cradled Prince Jaecaerys in his arms like he was holding a fragile piece of glass, which, given the circumstances, was probably a pretty accurate analogy. The kid was small, squirmy, and oblivious to the emotional nuclear fallout happening around him. But hey, he was a baby, so he had an excuse.
Meanwhile, his eyes landed on the other kid. The one at Ashara's feet. This little fellow had the Stark look: sharp cheekbones, dark hair, and the kind of intense stare that made you feel like you were about to be judged for every bad decision you'd ever made, even the ones you hadn't yet made. But there was a twist. A pair of eyes—purple eyes—so intense that they practically screamed "pay attention to me" in big neon letters. They were practically glowing.
Ned cleared his throat, which was an attempt at sounding like he had it all together, even though he was probably going to faint. "And who is this young lad?" he asked, doing his best to sound calm and collected. Spoiler alert: he wasn't. Not even close.
Lyanna gave him a look, one of those 'you're gonna hate this' looks, before exchanging a glance with Ashara. Ashara was one of those people who just radiated calm like some sort of emotionally chill ninja. Finally, Lyanna gave a soft smile, looking down at the kid with a mixture of affection and pride. "This," she said, her voice steady, "is Cregan. Brandon and Ashara's son. Your nephew."
Ned's brain did a double-take. A triple-take, actually. This was the kind of plot twist you didn't expect in the middle of a family reunion. Cregan? Brandon's kid? Brandon, the over-the-top flirt from the Tourney of Harrenhal? And Ashara Dayne, who was basically one of the most elegant women in Westeros? This kid? A nephew?
His mouth opened, then closed, then opened again. "Wait—Cregan is…" He gestured vaguely at the little boy. "How—?"
Ashara, looking unusually serious (and like she might punch Ned for being slow on the uptake), stepped forward. "Ned," she began, her voice calm but holding a quiet weight. "Brandon and I married. In secret. At the Isle of Faces. During the Tourney."
Ned blinked. "Married?" he repeated, because that was apparently a concept his brain wasn't ready to process. His brain had short-circuited more than once in the last few minutes, so it was a small miracle he was still standing.
"Yes, married," Ashara said, with the air of someone explaining the obvious. "We didn't think it would become the whole realm killing each other part of the story."
Ned's mind briefly considered spontaneously combusting to escape the awkwardness. But then he thought of Cregan, standing there with his little face full of defiant seriousness. "Well," he finally said, voice rough with the weight of it all, "let's get to the part where I don't have a heart attack. Cregan is the rightful Lord of Winterfell, then?"
Ashara nodded, looking equal parts proud and worried. "Yes. He's a trueborn Stark, Ned. Your nephew."
The room went silent. Not the dramatic kind of silence where everyone's staring at the ceiling trying to avoid eye contact, but the sort of "Oh, snap, we've just learned a massive piece of family history" silence. It was a special kind of quiet that felt like the weight of a thousand direwolf-sized secrets were hanging in the air.
Finally, Ned looked at the gathered Northern Lords, who had been absorbing this familial revelation. With a deep breath and the steely resolve of a man who'd seen far too many ridiculous things in his life, he straightened up. "My lords," he announced with a voice that carried across the room like the cold winds of the North, "I present Lord Cregan Stark, trueborn son of my late brother Brandon Stark and Lady Ashara Dayne. He is the rightful Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North."
The room shifted. There was an awkward pause. A whisper. A long whisper that rippled through the crowd. It was like a slow-motion game of Chinese whispers, only much more serious. But then something shifted in the air—respect, maybe? There was surprise, sure, but a little nod of approval here, a raised eyebrow there. Cregan was a Stark. That was enough.
Ned crouched down, putting a hand on Cregan's small shoulder. The boy, looking up at him with those intense purple eyes, tilted his head curiously. "Winterfell is yours," Ned said, voice low, "Lead it well."
It was the kind of line that should've come with a musical score in the background. But Cregan, for all his little Stark intensity, just gave Ned a look that would've made lesser men quail. "Does this mean I'm in charge now?" he asked, one tiny eyebrow raised in a way that definitely suggested he knew exactly what was going on.
Ned blinked. "Yes. And you'll need to work hard, listen well, and—" He paused, looking over at his sister, who was probably smirking at him in a "you're in for it now" kind of way. "And most importantly, listen to your aunt and uncles."
Cregan made a face. "Even Aunt Lyanna?"
"Especially Aunt Lyanna," Ned replied, voice full of affection and the tiniest hint of amusement.
Lyanna grinned, her eyes glinting with mischief. "Yes, especially me," she teased, "I am, after all, extremely knowledgeable on all things Stark."
And then, as if to reinforce his point, Cregan smirked at them all. A baby. One year old. Already proving that the Starks were apparently born with the ability to sass their elders into submission. "Well, Aunt Lyanna," he said with a grin that was entirely too smug for a one-year-old, "I'm sure I'll do better than you did at keeping secrets."
There was a brief, stunned silence. Then, the room erupted in laughter—Ned's hearty chuckles included.
"Ooh," Lyanna said, hand over her heart like she was about to faint from the burn. "That's a good one, kid."
The Lords of the North, caught up in the ridiculousness of it all, began to kneel before Cregan, one by one, pledging their loyalty to him with solemn promises.
Ned watched, his heart swelling with pride. This little firecracker might have been unexpected, but he was still Stark blood through and through. Cregan Stark had arrived in the North, and with him came the promise of something better.
So maybe Winter was coming. But with Cregan at the helm? It didn't seem quite so terrifying anymore.
—
The room was so thick with tension you could practically cut it with a sword. Or, if you were Howland Reed, maybe a spear. But that's neither here nor there. All around Ned Stark were the people he trusted most in the world: Ashara Dayne, Ser Arthur Dayne (looking as tall, intimidating, and knightly as ever), Howland Reed (who looked like he might survive the apocalypse and still be mad about it), and a few other notable characters, all of whom were apparently fine with committing treason. Great. Just great.
"So, I guess we're all just okay with hiding a Targaryen-Stark hybrid child in the most remote place in Westeros, huh?" Ned said, his voice the perfect combination of gruff and incredulous. Because, you know, hiding was what everyone was doing. Not a plan to start a family barbecue, definitely not.
Ashara, who looked like she could star in a romance novel even if she didn't want to, raised an eyebrow. "What's the plan, then, Ned? Stash them in a barrel like last week's wine and pray Robert doesn't fancy a drink?"
"Maybe we should make it a cask," Howland Reed suggested, looking at the floor like he was doing the math. "Barrels don't have enough breathing room for the kid. Casks, though..."
"I meant a safe place," Ned snapped, shaking his head in disbelief. He wasn't sure whether to laugh or just give up altogether. "Somewhere no one would ever think to look."
"How about a place that literally moves so no one can find it?" Howland Reed said with an almost mysterious air, a slight glint in his eye. It was hard to tell if he was being serious or just messing with everyone's heads, but considering his reputation, it was probably the former.
"Greywater Watch?" Ned asked. "Your floating castle? The one that moves with the marshes?"
"That's the one," Howland confirmed with a sly grin, though it looked more like a grin that came with the knowledge of untold secrets. "The Neck is a natural fortress, and Greywater Watch? Well, it might as well be a ghost. No one can find it. Not even Robert."
Ashara, ever the skeptic (and who could blame her), raised her hand like she was in class. "You mean the swampy castle in the swamp? Where it's constantly damp, full of mud, and smells like something crawled out of a bog? That one?"
"How else would you describe a place where even the crannogmen would rather let the world burn than spill a secret?" Howland shot back, looking for all the world like a man whose family had survived things most people couldn't even imagine.
"Sounds like fun," Ashara quipped, raising an eyebrow. "If I wanted to live in a swamp, I'd just hang out with you more often."
"Very funny," Howland muttered. "But it's not just about hiding. It's about protection. And Greywater Watch has protection, courtesy of the people who live there. The crannogmen won't let anything happen to her or the child."
Lyanna, sitting quietly with Jaecaerys cradled in her arms, glanced up. The purple eyes of her son glinted like they knew something the rest of them didn't. He was barely a year old, but that kid already had a knack for pulling off looks that could destroy a room. Like, you'd swear he'd already been through three lifetimes of complicated family drama. Cregan had no problem with this at all.
"You'll be safe there," Ned said, his voice much softer now. "It's the most secure place in Westeros. Trust me."
Lyanna's face was the picture of sorrow and gratitude. "If that's what it takes…" She paused, her voice tight but determined. "I'll go."
Ser Arthur Dayne, standing like a sentinel (looking just about as knightly as a man in white armor could look), stepped forward. "Ser Oswell and Lord Commander Gerold will escort them," he said, eyes unwavering. "We swore to protect her. They'll see to it she reaches Greywater Watch."
"Great," Ashara muttered, "because that won't cause a scene. The Kingsguard in full armor wandering around the Neck? Subtlety was never their thing, Arthur."
Arthur Dayne raised an eyebrow but said nothing. His sword, Dawn, was enough of an answer. Everyone knew it.
"Martyn and Theo, you're with them," Ned said firmly, turning to his two trusted soldiers. "You'll get them there. No one—not a single soul—can know about this. No one can suspect."
Martyn, standing with all the seriousness of a man who looked like he spent his free time plotting the demise of evil, gave a firm nod. "No one will follow, my lord. Not a soul."
Theo, ever the quiet type, just gave a half smile that was more for show than anything. "No one will find them."
Lyanna looked up at him, her eyes brimming with emotion. "Thank you," she whispered, her voice thick with the weight of what was happening. "All of you."
At that exact moment, Jaecaerys decided it was time to gurgle loud enough to disrupt the moment in a spectacular fashion. His laughter, bubbly and bright, filled the room. If he wasn't careful, he might end up running the show with that level of charm. Ashara, of course, was the first to break.
"Well, at least one of us is having fun," she said, snorting in laughter. "Royalty really does have a knack for timing."
"How long until the kid starts giving us orders?" Ned muttered to himself, shaking his head.
---
Hey fellow fanfic enthusiasts!
I hope you're enjoying the fanfiction so far! I'd love to hear your thoughts on it. Whether you loved it, hated it, or have some constructive criticism, your feedback is super important to me. Feel free to drop a comment or send me a message with your thoughts. Can't wait to hear from you!
If you're passionate about fanfiction and love discussing stories, characters, and plot twists, then you're in the right place! I've created a Discord server dedicated to diving deep into the world of fanfiction, especially my own stories. Whether you're a reader, a writer, or just someone who enjoys a good tale, I welcome you to join us for lively discussions, feedback sessions, and maybe even some sneak peeks into upcoming chapters, along with artwork related to the stories. Let's nerd out together over our favorite fandoms and explore the endless possibilities of storytelling!
Click the link below to join the conversation:
https://discord.com/invite/HHHwRsB6wd
Can't wait to see you there!
If you appreciate my work and want to support me, consider buying me a cup of coffee. Your support helps me keep writing and bringing more stories to you. You can do so via PayPal here:
https://www.paypal.me/VikrantUtekar007
Or through my Buy Me a Coffee page:
https://www.buymeacoffee.com/vikired001s
Thank you for your support!