━ in which; the game of thrones was a harsh game with unyielding rules and far too many scheming players. though it might just seem that ned stark might just of been hiding one of the most valuable pieces, lyarra snow. though remains yet to be s...
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The sky was dark, overshadowed by dark clouds filled with rain and snowflakes yet to fall. Yet inside the slate grey walls of Winterfell, it was warm and light. Inside the nursery, it was especially so. Candles lit the room and a fire crackled in the hearth, kept behind wrought iron bars in swirling patterns and snowflakes.
Banners and tapestries and portraits, brought a sense of light and youthful joy to the room. It looked the same as it had when he was a boy. Chasing about after Brandon and playing nights with Lyanna and Benjen when his little brother was a toddler. Lyanna would insist on being Aemon the Dragonknight, he himself would be Rody the Ruin and Brandon would be Ser Duncan the Tall, Benjen would race behind and pretend to be Egg, Aegon the fifth, they would race about and take unrealistic trips beyond the Wall to fight wildlings and hunt grumpkins and snarks.
Yet they were gone. All of them, but Benjen. The firstborn children dead and cold in the ground. His father and brother's bones, ash carried home in a jar. Lyanna. Sweating and wheezing and bleeding and weak, a crown of wilted roses on her bedside. The smell of iron, bitter blood and rot. The wailing of a babe and the stressed tears streaming down the maid at her bedside as she tried to both tend the distressed child and tend to her mistress. His sister. The sweet girl, four and ten and full of dreams, wolf's blood ran strong, a fighter and tough but loving and wishing life was a song.
She was dying. Swept off her feet and fled, madly in love with a married man, a prince hailed as being from the songs, a man with a wife and two children already, a man who plunged the realm into war. The downfall of his dynasty. She had loved him, at first. That was what her letter had said. Brandon had believed it forged, yet Ned had read her words and found they resonated with her dreaming. How could he feel? How could he feel knowing so many lies? That his brother and father died because of a lie? Because of her? Because of Rhaegar. He had married her, in the traditions of fire and blood and put a babe in her belly.
A lonely babe he had to take home. "I had wanted to name her Lyarra, for mother..." She had muttered weakly, her hands, boney and paler than they had ever been coiling over his own. Ned dipped his head. A rose petal fell from the dead floral crown, onto the back of her hand. "But he- He said Visenya. An Aegon and a Rhaenys. He needed a Visenya.."
"You don't have to call her that." He had replied, words slipping from his tongue as he bit back tears. Gods, he felt like a child again. Grey eyes stared into grey, she struggled to prick the edges of her cheeks upwards. "She can be Lyarra, Lya."
"He'll kill me." She stated, eyes widening as she shook her head. She tried to sit up. He gently pushed her back into the mattress, if she moved, she'd waste the last of her remaining strength. Tears ran from her eyes. Ned remembered placing his hand upon her head. It was hot, too hot, sticky with sweat. "Look after her.. Visenya."
