Chapter Text
Ned had barely sat down behind the folding table in his tent, intent on finishing the last of the post-battle reports, when the high lords of the North (minus Manderly, Seastark, and Mormont, as they were still at sea with the fleets) stormed in.
"Eddard Stark," Greatjon Umber rumbled dangerously, glaring, "What the fuck was that?"
"I – I beg your pardon?" Ned asked, startled.
"We went to war to avenge Rickard and Brandon," Lord Bolton said sharply, "Not to put Robert Baratheon on the Iron Throne!"
"The only reason we haven't already called a Conclave and put your brother on your throne is because that would tear the rebellion apart," Lord Glover growled, "And depending on how you answer we might do that anyway."
Ned slipped his hand below the table to comb his fingers through Grey Frost's fur, only to meet empty air. After a few moments of futile grasping he glanced over to see where his bonded companion was, before he remembered.
Grey Frost was dead.
As he looked at the empty floor by his leg where his direwolf usually lay Ned's hand and breath shook slightly.
He took a deep breath and pushed aside the impending breakdown. It made him feel horrible and guilty, like he was just dismissing Frost's death, but he couldn't allow himself to be emotionally compromised. Not now, no matter how sacrilegious that felt.
Refocusing on his lords he saw that they were either politely ignoring his slip or giving him looks of sympathy, but all were clearly waiting for his answer.
"What about my sister?" Ned asked, mainly to buy himself some time to think.
"What about her?" Lord Dustin asked, "She was safe with the Prince when this all kicked off. Though I know your father told them to hold off on finalizing the arraignment until after Princess Martell and her children were evacuated from the Red Keep so they couldn't be used as hostages against Dorne when we invoked the Contingency to remove Areys." He shook his head. "I'm not surprised that Lady Lyanna didn't listen, but Rheagar really should have known better."
A pit of lead formed in Ned's stomach.
"He was telling the truth?"
"Who was?" Lord Glover asked.
Ned explained what the Prince had told him at the pre-battle meeting.
"That was the plan, though I know your father would have stressed holding off implementing it until after Elia and her children were evacuated from the Red Keep and Areys' grasp. Obviously they didn't listen," The Greatjon rumbled, scrutinizing him, "You didn't know?"
"No," Ned said, "Father never told me."
"Did he… not have the opportunity too?" Lord Glover asked delicately.
Ned thought back to what he remembered of Harrenhall. He knew that the Spider had all the major lords under observation, a list that definitely included Father, Robert, and himself. Had Father not been able to slip the spies on them long enough to tell Ned what was going on with his sister… or had he not trusted Ned to keep his mouth shut?
"I don't know," Ned answered.
There was a grim silence at that.
"We've strayed," Lord Bolton said, "Stark. Why are you supporting Baratheon's desire to overthrow the Targaryen dynasty, not just Areys? We'll need them for the Long Night."
Ned gave him a confused look.
"The Long Night ended thousands of years ago."
"The Second Long Night," Lord Bolton said, tone clearly indicating he thought Ned was being deliberately obtuse and did not appreciate it.
"That's just a story told to scare children," Ned dismissed.
The way his lords froze and stared at him in shock made him add "Right?"
"…No, Ned, it's not," Greatjon said heavily, "What do you know about the Black Books and Idgra's Prophecies?"
"…Greatjon, I left for the Eyrie when I was nine."
The lords grimly looked at each other and leaned together, muttering. Ned caught a few words.
"Benjen would know-" "-he's rather young-" "-did he have lordly training?" "-issues with the South-"
"My lords," Ned interrupted, causing them to look at him, "Please. I am willing to learn. Teach me what I need to know."
The lords considered him for a long moment before looking at each other and, one my one, nodding.
"Very well," Lord Glover said, "But you have until we return to the North after the war's end to prove to us that you are worthy for the Lordship you hold. Even if you do, you will still be on notice. Another screw up, and we will call a Conclave to put your brother on your seat."
"I understand, my lord," Ned said solemnly, "and my first question: why are the Targaryens so important to the North."
"We will need them when the Second Long Night arrives," Greatjon said, "Them and their dragons."
"Dragons are extinct," Ned pointed out.
Lord Glover leaned over the table till his mouth was next to Ned's ear.
"Not on Skagos," he whispered.
Ned stared as the Deepwood Lord retook his position, stunned. Dragons. In the North. And no one south of the Neck had any idea. Aerys definitely didn't know. If he had, he would have spent his rule currying favor with the North. Or moved against them far sooner. The thought of that madman with a dragon made Ned shudder.
"I… see. I see. Do we…. Are there any clues as to when the Long Night will start?"
"Lady Idgra was quite specific on that," Lord Bolton said, "300AC, give or take a few years depending on how much of a fight the Thenn, Wildings, and FreeFolk settlements put up against the Others and their wights."
Ned felt another pit open up under him, and had to stop himself from instinctively reaching for Frost to steady himself.
"That's seven-and-ten years from now!"
"Aye, seven-and-ten years," Lord Dustin said severely, "You understand why we're pissed about Baratheon? And why your father arraigned for Brandon to marry a Tully, sent you to foster under Lord Arryn alongside the Lord of the Stormlands, married your sister to the Crown Prince, and was considering marrying Benjen to a Lannister?"
"Aye. Though that last one is news to me."
"That I'm not surprised by. He decided to start sounding out the Lannisters just before Harrenhall."
Ned took a deep breath and slowly let it out.
"Okay. If we want… to see if the Targaryens can be… pyromancers by the time the Long Night starts we need to send the Targaryen children to Skagos now. I'm sure I can convince Robert that we'd be exiling them to 'a cold, bleak, wasteland of an island that is nigh impossible to get to by boat and I can easily keep an eye on them'."
That got a few brief smirks and Ned continued
"First thing we do once we breach the Red Keep is kill Aerys – we cannot afford to allow him to be a dagger in our collective backs – but then we need to get Elia, Rhaella, and the children out lest they suffer an 'accident'. Greatjon, can you…"
"Aye," he rumbled, "I'll get them to Skagos."
"Thank you. Hopefully one of the servants will know where Lyanna is."
"Given how long Rheagar spent with her she's almost certainly with child," Lord Ryswell said, which was something Ned had been trying not to think about, "What are you going to do if Baratheon demands that she become his wife?"
Ned thought about it. He thought about how Robert remained ignorant of nearly all Northern customs and culture despite growing up with him. He thought about the whores constantly traipsing in and out of Robert's tent even as he proclaimed his love for Lyanna. He thought about the bastards he knew Robert had sired, and how the Lord hadn't seemed to care a whit about them.
He thought about Lyanna's fiery and impulsive spirit, able and willing to go toe-to-toe and blow for blow with anyone who looked down on her.
"If Robert thinks he can bed an unwilling Lyanna we'd better have another candidate for the throne waiting."
That caused a few chuckles and Ned briefly grinned as well before sobering.
"More seriously can I refuse the King? I know the North's relationship with the Iron Throne is complicated because while Torrhen bent the knee, it was a conditional surrender, but I'm not sure what that means in practice beyond greater autonomy for the North."
"Aye, the King can't demand the hand of a Stark for marriage without the approval of Lord Stark," Lord Ryswell said, "Admittedly that wouldn't prevent the Iron Throne from making things difficult for the North, but the law's on our side here."
Ned nodded.
"If Lyanna says no, then Robert has his answer."
The lords gave him approving looks.
"Keep that up, and you might just make it as Lord Stark," Greatjon said.
Ned led the North's forces he as rode through the northern gates of King's Landing, fuming as he sat uncomfortably astride a horse, guilt at taking another mount – no matter that he had no intention to bond with it – so soon after losing Frost looming in the back of his mind. It had taken a month for the army to recover enough to march on the capital, which was fortunate because it had allowed them to strike a secret deal with Lord Lannister where he would open the city gates for them.
Sacking the city was not part of the plan.
Passing through the inner gates Ned and the vanguard – consisting of the major lords and their retinues – came to an abrupt stop in surprise as the men waiting for him were not wearing the Lannister Lion as expected.
They were wearing the Stark Direwolf.
Their armor and clothing battered, tattered, and stained with dirt and blood, but it was clearly the Stark Direwolf over Northern-style travel plate.
One of the men, tall enough for one to suspect Umber ancestry and with an unkempt beard and mane, stepped forward.
"Good to see you, Lord Stark. I'm Sargent Hernin, the senior-most surviving member of your father's guard."
"I wasn't aware any of you survived," Ned said, surprised.
The sergeant grinned.
"Officially, we're 'unaffiliated' rebels taking advantage of the chaos according to the Mad King. Can't go admitting that while he got most of us, he didn't get us all. Even if we have decimated the goldcloaks and especially that we managed to get into the Red Keep several times."
"You managed to get into the Red Keep?"
"Aye, through the hidden tunnels. Varys put a stop to that after we managed to turn Kingsguard Martell, but," he carelessly gestured towards the pillars of smoke and sounds of the ongoing sacking, "I think he's a bit preoccupied right now."
"You managed to turn Prince Lewyn Martell?" Greatjon asked as the group moved out of the way of the rest of the army entering the city.
"Aye, though Varys put a stop to it when he tattled to Aerys. You can guess his response."
"How?"
"Rather easily once we made contact. We both wanted to get Elia and her children out of heer and to Dorne. Unfortunately we haven't been able to find any passages that lead to Maegor's Holdfast, just to the servants' section in the keep proper." He paused and eyed them. "You want me to lead you there?"
Ned dismounted and drew Ice.
"Yes. Lead on Sargent."
Jamie Lannister lounged on the Iron Throne, his exhausted gaze flickering between the corpses of Aerys and Rossart and the gibbet where Lewyn's charred corpse hung. It had been hours since he had broken his oaths and killed his king, and he was a bit confused as to why his father hadn't come yet. The sacking had begun hours ago.
He was pretty sure word of what he had done had gotten out by now, several guards and servants had entered the throne room, seen the dead king and him on the throne, and promptly fled while he waited.
At least Princess Elia, Queen Rheana, and the children were safe. The Queen and Viserys had left for Dragonstone yesterday, and Father had sent an advance guard, which included the Mountain, with his message that he had arrived to secure the city – and Jamie only now realized the message had neglected to say who Father was securing the city for – to secure the Martell Princess and her children. Aerys hadn't let them into the Red Keep, but by now they should have managed to make their way through the secret passages Father knew about from his time as Hand into the Holdfast, and while the remaining Targaryen guards might delay them, they wouldn't be able to stop the Mountain. So at least they were safe. They were valuable hostages after all.
Finally he heard armored footsteps approaching from the open door leading to the servant's quarters and, after a second's thought, he slouched until he was sprawled across the throne, knowing it would irritate his father. It also wasn't something he would do if he wasn't wearing armor, otherwise the throne's blades would have torn him up like they did to the now late King Scab.
Absently staring at the ceiling he waited for the footsteps to come to a halt before speaking.
"You took your sweet time, didn't you?" He drawled.
When there was no response he lazily glanced down.
It was not his father that had come through the doorway.
Lord Stark, flanked by a dozen of his men-at-arms, all clad in full painted plate with their visors raised, glared at him.
"At least we know where your loyalties lie," the Lord of the North said derisively, "Kingslayer."
Jamie sat up straight and barely refrained from glaring back.
"Get off the throne."
"Do you want my sword too?" he asked, bitter sharpness leaking through as he complied.
The Wolf Lord considered it for a second.
"No. Where's my sister?"
"I don't know. I haven't left the capital since Aerys went to Harrenhall. Varys would know."
"And where's Varys?"
"If he's not in his office then he's made a run for it."
Lord Stark looked at two of his retinue, one in painted gold-green and the other orange-blue, and they nod back.
"Where is his office?" one asks.
Jamie explained but rather than leave like he expected the pair sat at the base of the throne's dais, two other members of Lord Stark's men standing guard over them.
Then their eyes rolled into the backs of their heads and their bodies went limp against the side of the throne.
Jamie froze, hand clenched tight over the hilt of his sword, but he retained enough presence of mind not to draw it even as goosebumps went up and down his arms.
He'd heard of wargs. Until that moment, he'd believed the Maesters and Septons that insisted that they weren't real. That magic wasn't real.
Clearly, they were wrong.
He watched in morbid fascination for several minutes until the one on the left abruptly stirred.
"He's running, but we have his scent."
Jamie watched for a few minutes longer before he decided to seclude himself in a corner as Lord Stark wandered the throne room, inspecting anything that took his fancy.
"Kingslayer."
Jamie looked over. Lord Stark pointed at the gibbet.
"Who's this?"
"Lewyn Martell. Formerly of the Kingsguard. Aerys had him killed after he started conspiring with the remaining guards your father brought." And that he and the Goldcloaks had failed to kill.
Lord Stark grunted and moved on.
A while later Jamie startled when one of the servant's entrances was abruptly shouldered open by a gold-green armored direwolf, the great beast filling the entire doorway until it barely fit through, followed by Varys, who was doing that no-expression-watch-the-doorways thing he did when he got really nervous. The Spider paused in the doorway, spying Lord Stark waiting for him, then staggered into the room when the orange-blue armored direwolf behind him shoved him forwards with its' head.
"Ah, Varys," Lord Stark said with fake cheerfulness that didn't hide the menace in his words, "So good of you to join us. I've got a question for you." He dropped the cheerfulness. "Where. Is. My. Sister?"
"…Tower of Joy, my lord," the overweight man admitted.
"And where is that?"
Varys gestured to a map of Westeros that was hanging from a nearby wall.
"I can show you, my lord."
Jamie tuned them out, giving a longing look to the throne room's still sealed main doors. What was taking Father so long? His time in the Kingsguard had made him good at being able to stand around with nothing to occupy his mind, but even he had his limits. Especially when he had had less than six hours of sleep in the past two days.
Lord Stark had progressed to interrogating Varys about some house in the Reach a good hour later when the main doors slammed open and now-King Baratheon strode in, his plate armor splattered with blood (which made Jamie realize the Stark men's armor was still immaculate), and Father striding in beside him.
Figures. Of course Father would prioritize ingratiating himself with the new king rather than check on his eldest son.
King Baratheon laughed at the sighed of Aerys' corpse still sprawled on the floor in front of the throne.
"And so the Mad King dines in the hells where he belongs!" He crowed, "Who was it that struck the blow Ned?"
"Jamie Lannister is the Kingslayer," Lord Stark said, pointing at him, "On the orders of his father no doubt."
It took a lot for Jamie to refrain from glaring. Father hadn't given him such orders, but he knew that was because Father lacked the means to slip him said orders without Varys finding out rather than being unwilling to do so.
"Indeed," Father said, "I am pleased that he was able to accomplish it without issue."
Jamie clenched his jaw tightly to refrain from saying anything. There was no arguing with Father. Even when he took credit for things he had no right to.
King Baratheon laughed.
"Well, Kingslayer, I dare say you've earned a royal boon. What do you wish?"
He could feel his Father's gaze boring a hole in the side of his head. He knew what he wanted, for his Golden Heir to be released from the Kingsguard oaths so that he could eventually take the mantel of Lord Lannister.
Well fuck him, Jamie thought with a surge of spite, stepping forward to kneel in front of the new king.
"Your Grace, my wish is to join your Kingsguard, so that I may serve a king worthy of the title."
The king laughed, and effortlessly hauled him to his feet.
"Then a member of my Kingsguard you shall be."
Jamie looked at his Father, who was turning an alarming shade of red, but before he could say anything everyone was distracted by the squealing of a stuck pig. At least everyone thought it was a stuck pig until the squealing morphed into begging before descending back into squealing. The orange armored direwolf moved to sniff at the door the sounds were coming from.
"Lord Stark," the orange direwolf knight called, "The Greatjon's approaching."
"Shit," Lord Stark said, looking worried.
"Problem?" King Baratheon asked, stepping to stand next to his friend, hand dropping to the head of his warhammer that was sheathed on his belt, Jamie shadowing him.
"I sent Greatjon to secure the Holdfast. If he's here something's gone badly wrong."
It didn't take long for the Giant of the North to arrive. The man had to stoop to fit through the doorframe but when he straightened Jamie found himself looking up and up and up. The Mountain that Rides was almost unnaturally large. The Greatjon had almost two feet on him, and was half a foot wider in the shoulders.
Jamie fancied he could feel the vibrations of the giant's footsteps though the flagstones of the room, and wasn't entirely sure that was his imagination.
Then he noticed that the squealing was coming from a somewhat small blood-soaked Lannister man-at-arms whose helmetless head was almost buried beneath Greatjon's massive paw, and the Northern Lord's other hand was dragging an unconscious Mountain by the foot.
And following them were Northern knights carrying three bodies wrapped in bloodstained Targaryen banners.
Two were far too small to be adults.
Jamie's heart dropped to his boots as he listened to Greatjon Umber explain what had happened. How they had found the Lannister man repeatedly stabbing the corpse of Princess Rhaenys, how the Mountain smashed the head of little Prince Aegon, then killed his mother even as he raped her, and was found still defiling her corpse.
He listened absently, numb to the world, as Lord Stark immediately began to demand that the Lannister man – Ser Armory Loch apparently – and Ser Clegane face some sort of punishment for their actions. Father immediately objected of course. They were his men, supposedly acting on his orders.
He was brought back to the world when King Baratheon began to laugh.
"Don't you see Ned? This is justice! The Targaryens took your father, brother, and sister, and now they have reaped what they have sown! Once the ex-queen and her spawn are dealt with, our vengeance will be complete."
"Rhaenys, Aegon, and Viserys are children Robert! They don't deserve this!"
"All I see are Dragonspawn."
Dead silence, so complete not even the flames in the torches seemed to make a sound. It was as though the world itself was holding its breath.
Then the room seemed to darken, winds from the lowest hells stirred, gathering around the Heir to the Kings of Winter, who was so far past enraged that, even through his gleaming plate, he seemed…. Not. Quite. Human.
Jamie swallowed nervously as the direwolf crammed into human form turned a baleful gaze onto the king.
And the Quiet Wolf bared his fangs at the newly Crowned Stag.
…The argument – though calling it a mere argument greatly downplays it – between Lord Stark and King Baratheon at the end of the Sack after the latter's infamous and callous statement – "All I see are Dragonspawn" – in response to being presented the bodies of the Targaryen children was legendary. None who were there have spoken of just what was said between the two beyond the most general of terms, lest they anger either the Crown or the Lord of the North.
But the brotherhood between Eddard Stark and Robert Baratheon was shattered that day, and any loyalty Dorne or the North may have had towards the Stormlord on the Iron Throne died with Princess Elia Martell, Princess Rhaenys, and Prince Aegon when their murderers went free without even a slap on the wrist.
Officially, according to Royal Proclamation, the ones responsible were never identified and remain unknown, and Lords Lannister and Arryn would very much like to keep it that way…
…While the Rebel army, newly reinforced with Lannister men, marched south to relieve the Stormlands, which held the last Loyalist army under Lord Tarly – who would eventually surrender without a fight – Lord Stark took his personal guard and struck out for the Tower of Joy to retrieve his sister…
- Robert's Rebellion, by Historian Rickard Mullen, 288AC
Even in the depths of winter, the Dornish Marches and Prince's Pass were hot enough that the Northmen had to travel by night to prevent the direwolves and Ned's Northern-breed warhorse, natives of the frozen north, from collapsing from heat exhaustion. They'd also switched to partial plate for the same reason.
It was just before dawn when they reached the Tower of Joy, a solitary tower that was once the center of an outpost Dorne had used to monitor the pass before being converted into a retreat by the late Prince Rheagar. Firelight flickering through the arrowslits of the tower revealed that someone was awake.
The two horses stabled in front of the door began to panic at the sight and smell of the direwolves as they rode up. Cover blown the group leapt off their mounts and rushed the door, Ned in the lead with Ice in hand.
The door opened and Ser Oswell Whent stepped out, clad in only light mail over light clothing in deference to the local climate.
"'Bout time you got back Art-"
Light-blinded from going from a lit room into the dark night, it took the kingsguard a moment too long to realize the man charging at him was not his fellow knight. He only had time to grab the hilt of his sheathed sword before Ice's crossguard cracked into his head.
Ned ignored the knight as he fell, trusting one of his guard to secure him before he recovered, and sprinted through the door, almost sliding on the stone floor as he abruptly changed direction towards the stairs. As his foot landed on the first stair, he noticed several things. First was the smell of putrefaction. Someone had a wound that had gone septic. The second was of a man shouting.
"Damn it woman! What did you do with him!"
Ned was halfway up the stairs to the third floor when he heard the sound of flesh on flesh as someone was slapped. He'd set foot on the stairs to the fourth, and top, floor when the now panicking man bellowed.
"ANSWER ME!"
Noticing that the door at the top of the stairs was unlatched Ned slammed into it shoulder first, causing it to explode open, already winding up for a massive strike as Ice cleared the doorway. Ser Gerold Hightower startled upright from where he had been looming over the occupied bed that dominated the middle of the room, hand immediately going to his sword, but between the bed, the curved walls of the tower, and the clutter in the room he was unable to dodge Ned's swing for there was nowhere for him to dodge to.
Ice slammed into Ser Hightower's side and while his mail held, his chest did not. The knight crunched against the tower wall and fell, blood falling from his mouth as his lungs collapsed. Ned spun his ancestral blade and sliced the tip through the downed kingsguard's neck in a mercy stroke.
Then he looked at the bed. Lyanna lay on her back, a light blanket covering her torso and legs, face and arms swollen and discolored. A hand print marred her cheek. Ned rested Ice against the bed and dropped to his knees and took her cold, clammy hand in his own.
"Lyanna?"
She stirred, feverish, glassy eyes turning towards him.
"Ned?" Her voice was rasping and weak.
"I'm here Lyanna."
"Ned! Did you find him?"
"Him who?"
This was apparently the wrong thing to say as Lyanna started to panic.
"You have to find him! He'll kill him! Please, you have find him, have to protect him!"
"Him, who? Lyanna, please…"
"He is…. He is…." Lyanna's face went slack for a long, terrifying moment before she stirred again. "Ned, is that you?"
Ned kept the horror creeping down his spine off his face as he realized just how far gone his sister was.
"Yes, Lyanna, I'm here."
"Did you find him?"
"Not yet, but I will."
"Please Ned, promise me that you'll find him, that you'll protect him."
"I promise Lyanna." It was the only thing he could say.
"Thank… you…" Her eyes went white as she warged, and bereft of a mind to drive it onward, her body died.
"…Though I don't know who 'he' is…" Ned said quietly, sadly.
A hand on his shoulder caused him to look up. Ser Cassel looked back at him solemnly.
"There's a crib over there," the knight said, pointing.
Ned looked. There was. Decorated with carvings of dragons and direwolves playing. Lifting the sheet he discovered that his sister was nude under it, allowing him to easily locate the festering wounds that had claimed her life, located in a very intimate place.
"I have a nephew," Ned realized as he tucked the sheet around the body of his sister to preserve her modesty.
"There's no sign of an infant anywhere else in the tower," the head of his personal guard said, "and Ser Dayne is also missing. Judging from his quarters he left in a hurry."
Ned stood as he considered that.
"Either Ser Dayne went to fetch a maester for her," he said, "or Lyanna told him to take the babe and run. They must have heard what happened to his half-siblings."
"Or Lady Lyanna gave him to someone else and Ser Dayne is in pursuit."
"We'll have to interview Ser Oswell when he wakes up."
Ser Cassel grimaced.
"About that. You hit him a bit too hard and cracked his skull open. He's dead."
"Shit," Ned sighed as he starred out a nearby arrowslit into the pass.
After a long moment he sighed again, feeling horribly guilty at the realization he came to.
"There's no way we can find them with Ser Whent and Ser Hightower dead. We don't know where they went, how long ago, where they want to go, anything. They'll have to find us." He rubbed his forehead and looked back at Ser Cassel. "Let's see if there's enough wood for a pyre. And we need to dig two graves."
…After retrieving his sister's bones Lord Stark rejoined the Northern Army as it made its way back north. He has never spoken about what he found in the Tower of Joy, save that Lady Lyanna had died of an infection because the kingsguard assigned to her never sent for a maester….
…Almost four months after the crowning of King Baratheon, and nearly two years from the start of the Rebellion, Lord Stark arrived at Winterfell. And at the feast to celebrate his return and the end of the Robert's Rebellion, with Lords Karstark and Umber deciding to attend before proceeding onwards to their holds, the last, surprising act of the Rebellion played out…
- Robert's Rebellion, by Historian Rickard Mullen, 288AC
Ned sat at the head of Winterfell's high table in the castle's great hall, nursing a glass of wine, letting the happy cacophony of the pre-feast wash over him, but not partaking. Catilyn sat to his right, his newborn son, Robb, in her lap, watching the rowdy room with wide eyes. Benjen sat to his left, deep in conversation with Lord Karstark on his other side. He knew this should be a happy time, but right now all he could think of was what he had lost.
Father. Brandon. Lyanna. Frost. His unnamed nephew.
Catching the signal from the head cook that the feast was ready to be served he stood and rang his glass. He waited for the room to quiet, but before he could start his pre-feast speech the main doors opened, letting in several snow flurries from a late winter snowfall, a light brown – almost tawny – direwolf in a battered and filthy travel harness, and several guards escorting the 'wolf.
"Lord Stark, Seraphina has returned," one of the guards announced.
"Sera…?" Benjen asked in a strangled voice.
Ned didn't say anything, instead putting down his glass and hurrying around the table with unseemly haste. Seraphina was Lyanna's direwolf, and Ned now knew where Lyanna's consciousness went when she warged just before she died. Nothing could support two minds long term, but it had only been a few months. Lyanna and Seraphina wouldn't have fully merged yet.
Lyanna might yet live, in a fashion.
Blackwind reached their sister first, going in for one of his signature tackle-hugs, only to slide to a stop in an uncoordinated heap when she gave him a warning growl. Ned wasn't far behind, and he slipped around his brother's playfully whining direwolf to stand in front of the she-wolf.
"Sister?" he whispered.
Seraphina met his gaze, and gently headbutted his chest. Ned wrapped his arms around as much of her as he could reach and lowered his face into fur as her tail wagged rapidly.
"You're home," he whispered, trying not to cry, "you're home."
In the near silence of the hall, he heard an infant gurgle. Blinking in confusion he raised his head and leaned over to look at her mid-section. Attached to Seraphina's tattered harness was a large blanket that stretched under her belly, so filthy and travel stained it was impossible to tell what it had been originally, and there was a lump in it that faintly moved.
She didn't.
Ned met the direwolf's knowing gaze.
She did.
"May I?"
Seraphina nodded.
Ned carefully stepped around to her flank and, with another glance at the direwolf who had turned her head to watch him, reached into the blanket, past milk-filled teats, and brought out the infant that she had borne from the Sands of Dorne to the Heart of the North.
The child let out a surprised squeal, and instinctively fisted one hand in Ned's clothing as he brought the babe to his chest, Lyanna's son looking around the room curiously as the whispers started. Seraphina leaned in so that the infant could place his other hand against her snout. Blackwind stretched his neck across his sister's back to eagerly sniff the boy, and a quick glance at the head table revealed that Benjen had decided to ride along in his direwolf's mind rather than crowd them in person. That said Greatjon was approaching with surprising quietness.
The giant of a man dropped down to one knee when he reached them so that he wasn't towering over them.
"So, Ned," he whispered, which was still loud enough for the hall to hear him, as he looked at the babe in Ned's arms, "what's his name?"
Ned and Seraphina looked at each other.
"Jon?" he offered.
She considered that for a moment before slowly nodding. He turned back to the Greatjon.
"His name is Jon Targaryen."