Lyanna and Jon began a slow amble around the expansive grounds that made up the Tower of Joy, her hand delicately resting on the inside of his offered arm. Lyanna was the one leading them, though, taking odd corners and down darkened pathways that were long, cool tunnels offering respite from the Dornish heat.
They were silent for a bit, allowing Jon time to marvel at their height difference, and the sound of Lyanna's skirt swishing as she walked, her slippers dangling from two fingers in her other hand.
Finally, she said, quietly, "You missed Rhaegar. He rode out just two nights ago when Ser Gerold arrived."
"To war?" asked Jon, hesitantly.
Lyanna nodded. "It'll take him some time to link up with the Targaryen infantry. I believe the Reach is focusing elsewhere – or that's what Ser Gerold said."
Jon hummed in acknowledgement.
"Do you know where the fighting will be?"
"Aye," said Jon, although the word was mostly a sigh. "The Trident."
Lyanna grimaced. "So, he'll face the Riverlands, the Vale, and the North – all against the Crownlands and Dorne."
"Not the Westerlands?" asked Jon carefully, glancing down at her.
"No," replied Lyanna, shaking her head. Her fingers tightened on his arm. "Not after Ser Jaime's appointment to the kingsguard, I reckon."
They fell to silence again, and Lyanna steered them up a narrow passage, taking the lead with Jon trailing behind her. The stairs wound round and round, and eventually, they entered a room, bathed with warm sunlight. There was a large bed piled with pillows of different colours, a few standing wardrobes, and a hearth opposite the wooden bed. There were a few books on a table, but otherwise, it was bereft of anything personal.
"Come, sit," offered Lyanna, pointing to one of the chairs at the table, even as she perched on the bed and carefully fluffed pillows as support. She sighed in pleasure once off her feet.
Jon grabbed a chair and sat near her at the head of the bed, still partially mesmerized at being able to see and speak to his mother after so many years of wondering. Speaking to Duncan and Aegon had been – well, not necessarily pleasant, but still nice – but his mother? Lyanna stretched out a hand and Jon took it eagerly, the two peering at each other with identical dark eyes.
For a long time, they were silent, just watching each other, taking in each other's presence, until finally, Jon squeezed Lyanna's hand, and she let them gently drop. Her hands went to curl around her stomach, resting on the bump.
"I must ask," began Jon carefully, wetting his lips as he looked at his lap and his hands, palms up. "Did you – did you run away, or – or, were you—"
"Kidnapped?" finished Lyanna wryly. Jon glanced up at her from under his lashes, but she was turned away, facing one of the windows, letting a shaft of sunlight break apart and splatter across her. Her brows were furrowed, and her mouth was turned down. She sighed. "I don't remember anymore. It's all – it's all a blur, truly."
"What do you mean?" Jon's mouth equally turned down.
Lyanna reached out and played with a loose thread on her bedcover. "Did I run away with Rhaegar? Aye. Did I stay with him, after we heard what – what happened—" her breath hitched but she powered through, "to Brandon and Father? Aye, I did. I turned to him for comfort and—"
She glanced at Jon and then caressed her bump. "Well."
Jon cleared his suddenly clogged throat. "Well," he echoed, looking away.
"I would have told you this," said Lyanna, quietly. But it rang through the room like a cloister bell, and Jon twitched in his chair, swallowing thickly. "I would have told you—but you are asking me."
"Aye," he said hoarsely.
"Tell me," Lyanna demanded, imperiously, sounding like the noble lady she was and petulant teenager – Arya and Rickon rolled in one, truly – all at once. "I'm dead, aren't I?"
"Aye," repeated Jon, his throat scratchy and blinking quickly against the wet sheen in his eyes.
Lyanna fell quiet. "I never asked you your name." She gave a tiny, annoyed huff, aimed at herself. "I was more amused that Rhaegar didn't get the girl he wanted, enamoured with the idea of my child being as contrary as I, to not ask—"
"Jon." Jon shut his mouth quickly with a clack of his teeth, and then continued with a murmur, "It's ah – it's Jon."
"Jon?" she repeated, bewilderment coating the word. Lyanna's face was a twisted mixture of disbelief and dislike. At his look, she hastily added, "It's a perfectly fine name, but uh..."
Jon's mouth twisted wryly. "Not one you would have chosen?"
"Er, no," she replied slowly. "I... well, I suppose I've been calling you other Northern names in my mind – if Rhaegar did not get his Visenya, I would have called you something Northern."
"Like what?" curiosity roared through Jon – although he was quite partial to the only name he had ever known.
Lyanna gave a tiny shrug. "Perhaps Edrick, or Dorren. Maybe Rickon, after my father."
"My youngest brother is a Rickon," said Jon with a smile. When Lyanna stared at him, he elaborated, "I was raised with Father's – er, Eddard's – children. I thought we were half-siblings."
"Ned?" repeated Lyanna incredulously. "My big brother Ned? Raised by Jon Arryn's hand believing in honour and goodness in others? That Ned? Raising you as a Snow?"
Jon nodded weakly.
Lyanna sat back on the bed, expelling a burst of air, eyes wide as she stared at Jon. "Well," she murmured. "That explains the name."
"I could've been named after Jon Stark, the builder of Wolf's Den," protested Jon, but it was lightly done.
Lyanna snickered. "Of course, yet I reckon it was for Jon Arryn."
"Makes sense, since Robb is the eldest of the Stark children," sighed Jon. "Or, well, was. Time travel gets confusing."
"Is that what's happened? You've travelled here?" asked Lyanna.
Jon held up a hand, flat, and teetered it back and forth. "Mayhaps? It's... uh, hard to explain." "Try, Jon."
Well, thought Jon, there's that motherly tone I only ever heard Lady Catelyn demand of her children when they had done something she disagreed with. Never thought I would be at the receiving end of it.
He cleared his throat. "I, uh. We died. In our future. Time. At different points – Robb first, then Rickon; then well, I suppose the last of us – uh, Sansa, Arya, Bran, and myself – so we are much older in comparison. Robb and I are the same age, but I am four-and-twenty and he is still nine- and-ten, the age he died." Jon frowned, blinking as he thought. "Oh, well, his nameday is soon, so he'll be twenty—"
He stopped at Lyanna's stricken face. "You're – you died—!"
"I don't really remember it much, at least, the second time—"
"SECOND!" shrieked Lyanna, struggling to sit up in a quick, jostling manner that had Jon rising from his seat to help steady her.
Blabbering in panic, Jon attempted to fix things. "Honestly, the first time was painful – being stabbed repeated – but it worked out fine! Truly, Mother! A witch from Asshai resurrected me – Melisandre, an odd creature, for sure – and it was certainly better than being turned into a wight or fighting an Other, which certainly isn't easy..."
Lyanna incomprehensively stared at Jon. "What?" she gasped, weakly. Jon winced. "I, uh, should probably explain..."
And so he did: explaining not how he grew up as the Bastard of Winterfell, the one stain on Ned Stark's honour, but rather about his decision to go to the Wall, about Sam, Pyp, Grenn, and the others; about Qorin Halfhand's final orders and his infiltration of Mance's Wildlings and falling for Ygritte, about the truth of the undead and the Night King, Hardhome, the stubbornness of the Watch... and then, trailing off, of Davos, Melisandre, and a hundred stabs...
But Lyanna's eyes were vacant, thoughts turned inward, and she murmured, "Rhaegar's prophecy..."
Jon paused. "Prophecy?"
His mother's eyes turned back to him, and for the first time, Jon thought he could see the woman she would have turned into, had she lived: the long face, the tense, pinched looked around her eyes and the downward turn of her mouth as the gravity of the topic took over her.
"Rhaegar's prophecy..." she repeated slowly. "It was... well, there are letters between Rhaegar
and me, where we corresponded for moons. He charmed me, and—" she looked away, a blush on her fair face. "I was charmed, despite knowing he was married. But – he made it all sound so grand, Jon! I didn't want to be someone's wife and be cossetted in some castle, embroidering my life away. I wanted to live, to ride horses and feel the wind in my hair, and be free to go new places, try new things..."
She trailed off, her voice wistful. Jon's heart clenched. Was this how Arya had felt for so many years growing up in Winterfell, under Lady Catelyn, Septa Mordane, and Sansa's shadow? Was this who Arya would've turned into, had their father not been executed and the war of the five kings never happened?
"You must think me so foolish," muttered Lyanna, voice sliding into bitterness. "To have my head turned by a married man, who told me I could be part of something greater than myself, to make a difference in the very fate of Westeros' history..."
"Is that what he told you?" asked Jon, careful to keep his voice neutral and soft.
She began tracing patterns on the cover. "Aye. The Targaryen prophecy, first; that the dragon must have three heads. Princess Elia could not carry another healthy child to term, and Rhaegar said another was needed, to balance out Rhaenys and Aegon. A Visenya."
Lyanna gave Jon a rather pointed look, however self-deprecating it was.
"Rhaegar chose me – me, Jon – over beauties like Cersei Lannister or Catelyn Tully, or a Tyrell or Hightower. I felt... I felt so special," gushed Lyanna, lost in the memories, although they were
tinged with a vague sense of sadness to them. "He mentioned the Pact." Jon's nose scrunched up. "The Pact of Fire and Ice?"
Her face lit up. "You know of it?"
"Vaguely...?"
"At the beginning of the Dance of Dragons, Prince Jacaerys Velaryon visited Winterfell to gain House Stark and the North for the cause of his mother, Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen. He supposedly wed Cregan Stark's bastard daughter, but nothing came of it and no one knows if it truly happened," explained Lyanna, smiling. Her voice was enthusiastic, and it amused Jon to think his mother adored history. "Had the marriage happened and they had issue, their firstborn daughter would marry Cregan's son and heir, Rickon."
"Which never happened," finished Jon. "Rickon Stark married a Manderly."
Lyanna's head bobbed. "Aye – so the Pact wasn't complete. A Targaryen and Stark were to marry and join their houses – and while Cregan received much praise and honour, there was no marriage."
"Until you. And Rhaegar." Jon was beginning to see things – the bigger picture – as pieces connected with solid, firm snaps in his mind. He felt sick.
"Until Rhaegar," sighed Lyanna, not realizing the connections Jon was making - the ugly picture that she painted without realizing. "The dragon must have three heads, and the Pact would benefit House Targaryen, bringing the loyalty of the North into the fold."
Jon did not hold back his snort of derision.
"I know." Lyanna made a face, looking so young as she did so. "But at the time I didn't see how wrong it could all go – I was caught up in the romance of it, Jon! I had thought we were being careful, safe – but I was attacked near Harrenhal. I was supposed to meet Rhaegar at the Isle of Faces but before we arrived, we were set upon by these... outriders. They were too well-armed for mercenaries or smallfolk, but Rhaegar arrived with the kingsguard and saved me. We left immediately for the Isle and married. It was... dashing, Jon."
"Dashing?" Jon made a skeptical face. "I have always been under the impression that you had the wolf's blood. Wild, untamed, independent—"
Lyanna rolled her eyes so hard that Jon thought they'd disappear completely. "So, if I have the wolf's blood, I am unable to be a woman as well? I want to be known for more than just one thing – a woman and a fighter, both; can I not enjoy romance and stories of knights while wishing to bash my shield against a lowly squire acting poorly?"
There was no correct way for Jon to answer that, and he had no desire to upset his mother in the only chance he'd probably ever have to speak to her, so he kept quiet.
"Rhaegar and I married, and then we left immediately for here," continued Lyanna. "At first, everything was wonderful. It was about more than just the Targaryen prophecy, or the Pact. He
had alluded to this other prophecy – one he thought had meant him, initially, but then he believed it was about Aegon, his son, who was the Prince—"
"—Who Was Promised," finished Jon with a scowl.
Lyanna paused. "You know it?"
"Oh, aye, I know that one well," replied Jon bitterly. "It has been a bane of my life for the last several years."
Slowly, Lyanna said, "You're the Prince."
"We believe so," he admitted. "Melisandre thought it was Stannis for a long time, but Bran... well, toward the end, it seemed like I was the one it meant."
"Why? How?" asked Lyanna, eyes wide.
"The coming of a hero to deliver the world from darkness, Azor Ahai, the Prince Who Was Promised," repeated Jon with a monotonous voice of rote memory. "Born again amidst smoke and salt, under a red, bleeding star."
"But—"
"Born again," stressed Jon. "Twice – I died twice, once when my brothers at the Wall murdered me, and then once again fighting the Long Night."
To her credit, Lyanna did not speak, just watched Jon with wide eyes and a parted mouth.
"I was paraphrasing earlier – the bleeding star comes first," explained Jon, bitter. "Ser Arthur Dayne. The Sword of the Morning – a falling star that bled red, the last of the Kingsguard during my initial birth."
Lyanna had a hand pressed to her mouth, to stifle her shocked gasp.
"Or perhaps it means Lightbringer, the sword of Azor Ahai," continued Jon, blithely, "Or perhaps the vows I took as a member of the Night's Watch: I am the fire that burns against the cold, the light that brings the dawn."
He shrugged. "Who knows what prophecies mean. They mean anything people want them to, and yet nothing all the same. But if I am the one who brings the people of Westeros together to fight for the living, then so be it: I shall be Azor Ahai, I shall be their Promised Prince."
He cut a sharp glance at his mother, watching her carefully for her response. She was shocked, her face wrecked. "Jon... I – I wish I could be there for you."
"'Tis fine," he muttered thickly, glancing away.
Lyanna struggled up and off the bed, sliding her way toward him until her feet dangled off the side and she could partially lean over her pregnant belly. She extended her arm and cupped Jon's face with her hands, forcing him to look at her.
"It's not," she whispered, voice stricken. "Rhaegar and I were swept along with this grand idea of a hero to save Westeros. I never imagined what it would mean for that child, not until – not until you. I'm so sorry, Jon. I'm sorry."
He gave her a weak smile. What could he say? Lyanna had died young, in childbirth; that was not something she could necessarily fight against herself. She was a young and silly girl, running from her responsibilities but thinking she was part of something greater. It was Jon's past – that couldn't change. He was only given that moment with her, to learn some answers.
"I know," he said instead.
Eventually, they spoke again, of inconsequential things, getting to know one another with tentative inquiries. What is your favourite colour? What food do you dislike? What was your hiding spot in Winterfell? But finally, Lyanna said she needed to eat and insisted that they leave the Tower in the fortress to visit the kitchens, which had been cleaned and partially fixed up over the years of Rhaegar's visits to the Tower of Joy. It was still bare-bones, but functional.
"And perhaps I can meet my niece and nephews?" Lyanna suggested, eyes a bit red-rimmed but trying to inject levity into her voice.
"Aye," agreed Jon.
They found Arya, Rickon, and Bran first, in a completely different part of the fortress than Jon had left them. It was a long, rectangular, and sand-filled courtyard with two high walls on the longer side, furthest from the entrance to the Tower. The outer wall was partially crumbled, thick stones creating a ramp to a V-shaped hole in the wall, which revealed a straight drop over the edge of the crest the fortress was built upon. Opposite the outer wall was a covered walkway, with columns separating several arched entries to the courtyard.
However, the focal point was the bone-white, dried out and twisted tree trunk along one of the long courtyard walls. It had bent and was partially uprooted by the crumbling stones, leaning it leaning precariously to the side. There was a faint etching of a face on the trunk.
Bran, Rickon, and Arya were all climbing over the large chunks of stone. Bran was closest to the ground, crouching before the trunk with a hand pressed against it and his eyes closed; Rickon and Arya had taken to the higher points of the rock wall with Rickon looking out toward the Dornish desert and Arya back toward the courtyard.
She was the first to spot them, muttering to Bran and Rickon, just as Lyanna came to a stop beside him, gasping, "A weirwood tree!"
"I thought you two were watching the kingsguard train," called Jon at Rickon and Arya, who scrambled down the rock.
"It got boring after a while, just watching Whent get shouted at," replied Arya.
Lyanna stifled a snort.
"Oh, she can see us, too?" commented Arya.
"Aye," replied Jon, turning a bit to glare at Bran, who stood from his crouch. "I thought you said people wouldn't see us. Once, at Summerhall, I could believe was a fluke, Bran, but now twice?"
Bran shrugged, dusting his hands off on his trousers. "I'm not sure why—"
"Is it the 'First Men blood' thing?" asked Rickon, looking over Lyanna from head to toe. She squirmed a bit under the look as Jon walked them closer.
Bran shrugged again, and Arya shook her head. "If that was the case, Ser Arthur and Hightower would've been able to see us." At Jon's inquisitive look, she explained further, "Rickon and I got bored hiding when watching them and eventually were out in the open." She gave a cheeky grin. "We got sword training from the Lord Commander himself – not that he ever knew it."
Lyanna laughed. "Oh, I like you!"
Standing before them both, it was easy to see the superficial similarities between Arya and Lyanna, in their colouring and body shape. But Arya was tiny – who knows where she inherited that from – and was sharper, in her chin and skinny, toned body, whereas Lyanna was taller and a bit more stout, strong in a different way.
"So, you're Ned's children," she continued, looking them over, lingering on Bran and Rickon, both with their dark mahogany hair that had a red sheen only in the light. "With Catelyn Tully?"
Bran nodded.
"There's two more of us," added Arya, eyeing Lyanna with a careful expression on her face.
Lyanna's nose scrunched as she thought. "Oh, aye, Jon mentioned... Robb?"
"Our eldest brother," answered Bran, "Before everything happened. And then there's Sansa."
"She looks like Mother," added Rickon unhelpfully, because Lyanna had only seen Catelyn Tully in passing once before, and then drove her from her memory, concerned with other things.
Lyanna was nodding along, a bit overwhelmed. "And Benjen—?" Jon cleared his throat. "He went to the Wall."
"Oh," she said, her voice small. "I see."
Rickon shuffled awkwardly in place; he had few memories of Benjen Stark, while Arya and Bran were still in that alien way of theirs. Bran, thinking he was helping, offered, "He died, uh, well. The second time. He uh, helped Jon get a wight to convince the Lords to fight during the Long Night."
Lyanna shot Jon a glare. "What is it with dying more than once for Starks recently?" Helplessly, Jon shrugged.
"The Long Night..." she trailed off, worrying her bottom lip. "You speak truly?" Arya's jaw clenched. "Aye."
Lyanna worried her lip some more, mentally arguing with herself. Finally, she swallowed and muttered, "You must come with me. I have something that might aid you, then."
Arthur wiped the sweat off his brow, pushing aside his dark hair. The sun had long stretched from midday to early evening, and the princess had been awfully quiet. Usually, she would come to bother himself, or Whent, or Hightower at some point, badgering them to teach her swordplay. Gerold forbade it, of course; and Arthur would have regardless due to her pregnancy.
Rhaegar indulged her, he thought, fighting the conflicting feelings that Rhaegar left in him. Rhaegar was his best friend, his brother, and Arthur would follow him anywhere. Arthur should follow him anywhere – especially battle.
And initially, he had been ready to, when Rhaegar whispered to him of the prophecies, the legends he discovered and the burden he thought he must bear. Arthur wanted to believe in Rhaegar, wanted to help him see the prophecies through. He disliked how he treated Elia, but both seemed
resigned to the dissolution of their marriage by the end of it, even if Elia scoffed and thought the prophecy was codswallop.
Lyanna Stark, though... Arthur grimaced slightly, waving off Whent and Gerold as he strode out of the courtyard and began to search for their new, wayward princess. The kitchens first – she had not come to bother them for food, so there was a good chance she had scavenged on her own.
Rhaegar's belief that Lyanna was the necessary ingredient for the prophecy sat unwell with Arthur. He didn't think the Pact needed to be upheld, but it certainly would help if the Promised Prince's story was one of "fire and ice." But Rhaegar seemed to need Lyanna in ways that were beyond the prophecy, ever since they had discovered her trying to hide her Laughing Knight shield at Harrenhal. She became a fascination, and, at that moment, Arthur felt the first stirrings of unease in how Rhaegar's single-minded obsession of the girl echoed his father's growing paranoia and single-minded madness.
He said nothing though. It wasn't his place. Or, that's what he told himself after they came across the girl about to be kidnapped by Aerys' men. From there, it was non-stop, racing to the Isle of Faces, their hasty marriage, then straight to Dorne and avoiding King's Landing, to the Tower of Joy and two, blissfully ignorant moons until his brother sent a rider from Starfall informing them of Rickard and Brandon Stark's deaths (murders, his mind whispered harshly), of the king calling for Eddard Stark and Robert Baratheon's heads, of Jon Arryn calling his banners in response, and the war that followed.
Sitting out of it made Arthur gnash his teeth. He wanted to fight – oh, not for Aerys, but to depose him and place Rhaegar on the throne. That had been the plan at Harrenhal – gather support, call a great council, oust Aerys – but no, it didn't happen because Aerys caught wind and he began the cascading effect by placing Jaime Lannister on the kingsguard.
Unconsciously, Arthur's rather relaxed strides had turned into an angry stalk, and he consciously slowed himself by taking a deep breath and pausing to lean against the nearest cool stone wall. He leaned his head back and shakily exhaled.
After her brother and father's deaths, Lyanna's relationship with Rhaegar had soured, but not before he got what he wanted: another child, his Visenya to his Rhaenys and Aegon. Arthur was certain he didn't need another child, didn't need to repudiate Elia; but he was adamant, and Arthur was helpless to speak against him.
A low murmur of voices had Arthur stand straight, eyes peering down the darkened corridor. Some feminine, more men's voices followed, and Arthur prowled down, keeping to the shadows despite his spotless, white cloak catching the fading beams of light that filtered through the latticed shades.
His heart skipped a beat. The armoury! They're in the armoury!
He slowly withdrew Dawn, careful so that the blade didn't rasp against his sheath, and relaxed his
grip, just out of sight from the door. Then –
Arthur kicked the door in, making it slam hard against the opposite wall. A few torches were lit, and Lyanna whirled in surprise, a hand at her mouth. She had been near the back of the armoury, where Rhaegar had brought and placed the package he retrieved from Castle Black a year previous.
"Ser Arthur!" she gasped and then glared. "You frightened me, Ser!"
Arthur narrowed his purple eyes, darting them around the armoury. It was empty of anyone else but Lyanna, but Arthur was not fooled; he heard at least one other woman with her, and two men. They
had to have been hiding.
"Who is here with you?" he demanded, stalking a few steps closer.
Lyanna took one back, then seemed to pause and tilt her chin up stubbornly.
"Lyanna," chided Arthur. His hand flexed around his sword, trying to spot those Lyanna had spoken to. "Do not lie to me, Princess."
"As you can see," she spat, emphasizing her words, "There is no one else here." "I clearly heard others. Has your brother sent men to take you to the Usurper?"
Lyanna rolled her eyes. And then, there was a loud scoff; had Arthur not been staring at the slip of a girl, he would've thought the sound came from her, but her mouth remained closed.
He whirled around, striding forward, and tossing small crates and empty boxes to the floor with crashes and clangs, tipping over a sword rack as he peered behind and checked the dark corners of the room.
Lyanna shrieked. "Ser Arthur, what are you doing?!"
"There is someone here!" he grunted; his jaw was tight. "Where are they?"
"I don't think he's going to stop," a feminine voice said, the tone bored and lower-pitched than Lyanna's.
He whirled in the direction and saw only Lyanna had backed up, closer to the far wall at the back of the armoury. But the voice came from beside her... "Who said that? Show yourself!"
The female snorted again. "I doubt I could, even if I wanted."
Arthur sharply inhaled. The voice was coming from beside the princess, but no one was there.
Lyanna bit her lip. "Ser Arthur – you can hear them?"
"Them?" he echoed, blinking.
"Aye," came a rather northern brogue, a low voice, rough and gravelly. It was a man's voice, and instinctively, Arthur clenched his hilt.
"Oh, put that away," sighed another man's voice, higher in pitch and as bored as the woman's. "It's not like it'll do any good."
"It's skymetal, though, isn't it?" asked a third voice, cracking. A boy on the cusp of manhood, then, thought Arthur. "Couldn't it work like Valyrian steel?"
"I suppose..." the bored man hedged, disgruntled.
"Princess, what is going on?" asked Arthur, feeling lost. He let his hand slip from the hilt, craning his head around, looking for the owners of the voices. Were they ghosts? Cleverly hidden assassins?
Lyanna sighed. "Will you trust me, Ser Arthur?" He frowned. "Trust you how?"
Lyanna gestured behind herself, shifting the slightest so that he could see she had gone for the package Rhaegar brought from Castle Black, and had partially unwrapped the cloth that kept the sword covered. The black Valyrian blade rippled in the flickering torchlight.
"What are you going to do with that?" Arthur's voice was cautious, and he took a step forward, one hand in front of him, placatingly. "Lyanna, that's not a toy—"
"I know that Arthur," she snapped, glaring at him. "But I'm giving it to the person who should wield it."
"Person who should wield it!" repeated Arthur, alarmed, but he wasn't quick enough and Lyanna reached back, withdrew Dark Sister, and then held it aloft in her palm, out to her side.
Arthur stumbled.
"Take it," she instructed, and Arthur watched in growing disbelief and awe as an invisible hand took the sword. Then, as the light flickered, a shimmering outline appeared, like a mirage in the desert, of a tall man. He shifted the grip of the longsword, growing more solid the longer he held the blade.
Arthur's mouth dropped open, his eyes roaming the figure from head to toe. There was something familiar about the man...
Then three more ghostly hands touched the hilt, and vague outlines appeared of the other speakers: a tiny woman, smaller than Lyanna with sharp features and a dark look in her eyes as she stared challengingly at him; a tall, slender young man with a solemn expression on his face; and a teenager, with a thick mop of curly hair and the sharpness of the girl.
"What...?" he breathed out, glancing at them and then to the solid man standing beside Lyanna confidently.
Her mouth quirked up into a smile. "Oh, so now you can see them? Do you trust me now, Ser Arthur?"
His eyes lingered on the man. He was in northern leathers and had a very distinct northern look. Arthur's instincts were warning him the man was dangerous. "Is he one of the Usurper's dogs, then?" he sneered.
The man's mouth turned up in a much smaller smile, one that was eerily familiar. Arthur's heart began pounding in his chest. No.
"I can't say that I've ever been an explicit supporter of the Baratheons," the man admitted easily. The tiny girl, looking similarly to Lyanna, rolled her eyes.
"Then you're a Stark man," said Arthur pointedly.
"Oh, aye, that I am," the man agreed, a glint in his dark eyes. His chin lowered and the shadows flickered across his face and Arthur bit back a gasp. That challenging look - the dip of his chin, the way his eyes were hooded - he had been on the receiving end of that look recently when arguing about putting aside Elia for Lyanna... It can't be.
His eyes darted toward Lyanna, dropping quickly to her belly, at the hand caressing the bump, and then back to her face. She nodded, once. Arthur's purple eyes ripped back to look at the tall man, finding Lyanna's smile in his face, her colouring, but Rhaegar's height and his eyes and –
"Gods," rasped Arthur, knees weak. He sank to one knee, staring at the man. "I don't know how – I don't, I don't know why – but –" he swallowed thickly, eyes remaining locked on Rhaegar's son. "My Prince."
"Oh. Oh, no," the man immediately said, shaking his head. "No, don't call me that. Really. Don't." The youngest boy with them snickered and jabbed him in the arm. "You'll have to get used to that
if we're going to crown you konungur."
He affected a wounded look when he stared down at the younger boy, a pout on his face.
Arthur watched the interactions greedily, taking in every move and gesture made, seeing parts of Rhaegar emerge and other parts that were all Lyanna and her Starkness. It was fascinating – even if he wasn't the Visenya Rhaegar had been hoping for.
Oh. He paused. Ohhhhhh, no. Rhaegar's plans – he needed two girls and one boy. Arthur's eyes ran speculatively over the other three but found that while the girl and his prince's son looked the most alike, she shared more in common with the others. Perhaps they were half-siblings? And not full?
"You have questions."
Arthur's head jerked around to face the man.
There was resignation on his face when the man sighed and said, "Well. Sit down. We might as well get this over with."
"Actually," piped up an embarrassed Lyanna. All heads turned to her. She had a faint red tinge to her cheeks. "Do you think we could find something to eat, first?" her stomach gurgled loudly. "We're rather hungry."
Climbing to his feet, Arthur immediately said, "Yes, of course, Princess. Please." He gently led her toward the door, glancing back at the four figures behind. "Coming?"
"Aye, suppose so," muttered the man.
"Cheer up, Jon," said the youngest with a cheeky grin, "It's Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning! How many people can say that they've broken their bread with one of the greatest swordsmen in Westeros? Even father used to say that, and he helped kill the man!"
Arthur tripped, missing a step. Wait, WHAT?
TBC...