"Some secrets are safer kept hidden. Some secrets are too dangerous to share, even with those you love and trust."— Eddard Stark's thoughts.
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Ned's heart seized, his pain forgotten and he ran with his boots pounding the stone steps, with Howland staggering behind while clutching a wound, but following.
The tower's air was thick with heat and the smell of blood.
Ned climbed the narrow stairs, his breath loud in his ears and the scream echoing pulling him upward. He burst into a small chamber with a single oil lamp casting a weak glow across a bed soaked in crimson.
Lyanna Stark lay there with a pale face and her dark hair matted with sweat sticking to her cheeks. Her hands clutched the furs with knuckles white, her body trembling as the last of her strength bled away.
A midwife stood beside her, an older woman with gray-streaked hair, her hands slick with blood and her eyes wide with fear. In her arms, a newborn boy wailed, his tiny body wrapped in linen.
Ned stumbled forward, his sword clattering to the floor, forgotten. "Lyanna," he said, his voice rough and breaking as he dropped to his knees beside her.
Her fading gray eyes found his, and she reached for him, her fingers cold and shaking."Ned," she whispered with her thin voice, barely carrying. She pulled him close, her breath hot against his ear and spoke so only he could hear.
"His name is Jaehaerys… Jaehaerys Targaryen."
The name hit Ned hard, a Targaryen claim that could spark new wars and a secret too heavy for this moment.
He froze, his mind racing; Robert's hatred and the rebellion's cost, and the danger to this child.
Lyanna's hand tightened on his with her nails digging into his skin and grounding him. "Promise me, Ned," she said, louder now, her voice cracking with urgency. Her gaze darted to a corner, where a wooden chest sat, its lid half-open revealing two dragon eggs; one black as night, its scales rough and glinting, the other white as snow, smooth and faintly warm.
"Rhaegar… he left them for him. For Jaehaerys. They're his birthright… protect them."
Ned followed her eyes, his stomach twisting at the sight. Dragon eggs. Relics of a fallen house, dangerous in a world ruled by a Baratheon who loathed Targaryens.
He wanted to speak, to question, but Lyanna's strength was failing, her hand slipping from his.
"Promise me," she said again with her fading voice and her eyes pleading.
"I promise," Ned said, his throat tight, the words scraping out as he held her gaze. "I swear it, Lyanna."
Her lips curved faintly, relief surely, then her eyes closed, her body stopped, and she was gone.
The midwife stepped forward and silently offered the babe. Ned took him with his unsteady hands, cradling the boy against his chest. His tiny weight is truly a burden.
Jaehaerys Targaryen as Lyanna had named him, but Ned knew that name could never leave this room. He would call him Jon, a name to hide a prince and to shield him from a world that hunted dragons.
The eggs gleamed in the chest and Ned stared at them, his heart pounding knowing they'd have to be hidden and buried where no one could find them.
He stood with the babe in his arms, and turned from the chamber, leaving Lyanna's body behind. The tower's stones seemed to close in, its air thick with death and duty, as he stepped into the Dornish sun, now high and unforgiving.
Ned's eyes opened, his breath catching as he sat up in his bed at Winterfell. The furs were full with sweat, the fire in his chamber reduced to glowing coals casting faint light across the stone walls.
It was 285 AC, two years since that day in Dorne, but the memory still clinging to him.
His hand went to his shoulder, tracing the scar Arthur's sword had left, a reminder of the blood spilled to keep a promise.
A soft voice broke the silence.
"Ned?" Catelyn Stark sat up beside him, her auburn hair loose and her blue eyes searching his face in the dimness. Her warm hand touched his arm with concern etched in her expression. "Another dream?"
Ned nodded, his throat tight and unable to speak of it.
Lyanna's whisper of Jaehaerys Targaryen echoed in his mind, it's a secret he carried alone.
Jon, the boy he called his bastard was asleep in the nursery, a sturdy two-year-old with dark hair and... quiet eyes, unaware of the name his mother gave him, or the eggs hidden deep in Winterfell's crypts.
Catelyn shifted closer, her fingers tightening on his arm. "You carry too much," she said, her voice gentle but firm. "Whatever it is, let it rest tonight."
He forced a small smile, covering her hand with his. "I'll try," he said, but the weight remained.