16 days since arrival in Westeros
Tower of Joy
"ARGHHH...!"
It was the hour of the wolf. Cold winds snapped at the tent's canvas, reminding everyone how chilly the desert nights could get. Inside, glowing crystal spheres hung in mid-air, casting shadows that danced like spirits on the taut linen walls. The scent of herbs, sweat and blood filled the air—a sacred harrowing aroma only ever found at the edge of life and death.
The midwife hovered at the foot of the bed, hands steady, lips tight. Nearby Maester Caleotte prepared a tonic while two maidservants mopped Lyanna's brow with cool clothes and whispered reassurances in low tones.
"ARGH—!" Lyanna screamed again, her voice ragged, her body shaking with the last cruel pull of exertion.
"Lyanna, look at me. Look at me," Elia whispered, kneeling close, her voice a steady anchor in the storm. "It's almost over." She waited until Lyanna's gaze found hers. "Just one more push."
"I can't!" Lyanna cried, her long dark hair clinging to her cheeks, lips drawn back in pain.
"Yes, you can. I am right here with you," Elia took Lyanna's hand in hers and gently moved the loose strands of hair back from her face. "On the count of three, okay? One… two… three. Push."
Lyanna cried out once more—and then, like the sudden hush after a thunderclap, the world seemed to still.
A cry cut through the chamber—small, fierce, unmistakably alive.
The midwife's face cracked into a grin as she lifted the newborn. "A boy," she announced. "A strong one."
Tears welled in Lyanna's eyes as Elia gently took the child, swaddling him in soft cloths. He had a shock of black hair and eyes the colour of grey mist—unmistakably Stark. When Elia laid him in Lyanna's arms, the world seemed to pause, holding its breath.
But only for a heartbeat.
"She's lost too much blood," Maester Caleotte muttered under his breath.
Those words made Elia turn her gaze to the birthing bed where a worrying amount of blood had turned the white sheets deep red.
Remembering what Ben had told her before, she moved past the maester and made her way to the door.
---
I was waiting outside with the others when the door opened halfway and Elia's head appeared, her face drawn and harried.
"It's time," was all she said.
I gave a brief nod and followed her into the birthing suite. Lyanna was lying on the bed, skin pale as snow, her hair plastered to her forehead. Yet, despite looking completely worn out, there was a relieved smile on her face as she looked down at the little bundle of pink flesh and dark hair nestled in her arms.
"Congratulations," I said gently to the northern girl. Then, more quietly, "But it's not over yet. You've lost a great deal of blood."
Fear flickered back into her eyes.
"You'll need to drink these—now."
I drew two crystal phials from my ring: one filled with a thick, dark red fluid, the other glowing a cool blue, like moonlight on a frozen lake.
"What are they?" Lyanna asked, her gaze fixed on the glass.
"Blood Replenishing Potion and Wiggenweld Potion," I replied, as Elia gently lifted the newborn from her arms. "I was wary about giving them to you earlier, as I was not sure whether they would interfere with the process of childbirth or not. It should be quite safe now. They will heal your body and regenerate the vital blood you have lost."
"Fair warning though, it tastes foul," I added, before handing the red potion to Lyanna. "So don't go retching it up. You need to drink it all."
Lyanna studied the phial, then looked up at me. After a brief pause, she raised it to her lips. She gagged once—then forced it down.
"Bring her some water," I said to the room at large. Maester Caleotte brought over a cup of water and coaxed Lyanna to drink it.
"Good. Very good," I said as colour began to creep back into her cheeks. "Now this one, and you'll be right as rain."
"Do I have to?" she asked with a bitter face, looking at the blue potion which was sure to taste just as horrible as the one before.
"Would you prefer to lie abed for weeks?" I asked pleasantly.
"No," she muttered.
"Then, yes. You have to." I pressed the phial into her hands.
The Wiggenweld potion glimmered as she drank, its soft blue light fading as it was taken in. Her breathing evened, the pallor retreating from her skin as the magic settled through her like a warm, steadying blanket.
"Thank you," Lyanna whispered, her voice hoarse but certain, her grey eyes lifting to meet mine. "You saved me. I can feel it… you saved my life."
"You're welcome," I said softly. "No child should have to grow up without their mother." My gaze drifted to the infant cradled in Elia's arms.
She smiled and stepped closer. "Would you like to hold him?"
I hesitated for a moment, then gave a small shrug. "All right."
I am not gonna lie — it felt really cool holding little Jon Snow in my arms. This fragile, squalling scrap of life would one day grow up to be such a manly man, that he wouldn't falter even when facing a cavalry charge all by his lonesome. My man!
"What are you going to call him?" I asked Lyanna, while gently rocking the baby.
She continued to watch her son for a long moment before lifting her gaze to me.
"What would you call him?" she asked.
I raised an eyebrow. "Me?"
She nodded.
My eyes fell back to the sleeping infant. "Are you certain?" I asked, suddenly unsure.
"You saved my life," Lyanna said simply. "Without you, my son would never have known his mother—never known who she was, or how fiercely she loved him." Her voice wavered as she smiled through gathering tears, her eyes never leaving the child. "You saved me. You saved Elia and her children. You saved all of us."
She looked back at me then, steady and resolute.
"My son would be honoured to be named by you."
I held her gaze for a second before looking down at the baby in my arms.
A name. Seriously?
Jon Snow popped into my head instantly. Not because it was clever, but because it was familiar—because somewhere in the back of my mind I could already hear a sharp-tongued redhead saying, You know nothing, Jon Snow.
I killed the idea just as fast. Calling Lyanna's son Snow would not land as a joke. It would land as a bad decision with immediate consequences.
I took a quiet breath and focused. This wasn't a fandom Easter egg. This was a real kid, in a real world, with a future that wasn't guaranteed to follow the script I remembered.
And it wasn't every day that a thirteen-year-old boy with a twenty-first-century mind was asked to name someone who might one day become a legend.
A few names surfaced as I thought it through.
Arlen—a name tied to promise and quiet strength, a wanderer's name, one that felt like open roads and uncharted skies.
Valen—sharp and resolute, carrying the sense of a warrior's heart and an unyielding will. Too hard, perhaps, for a life that had only just begun.
Ronin—a name for one who walks without a master, bound to no banner but his own. Powerful… but heavy, laden with loneliness and loss.
I let them pass.
The boy shifted in my arms, releasing a small, sleepy sound, his fingers curling around my sleeve as if anchoring himself to the world. There was nothing wild or broken about him. He felt… steady. Like deep water beneath winter ice.
"Aeron," I said at last, the name settling into place the moment it left my lips.
Lyanna's brow furrowed slightly, not in doubt, but in thought. "Aeron," she repeated softly.
"It's an old name," I explained, meeting her gaze. "In some tongues, it means strength born of trial. In others—one who endures, who carries the weight and does not break." I glanced back down at him. "It's a name for someone shaped by hardship, but not consumed by it."
Lyanna was quiet for a long moment.
"And Stark," I added gently, "because no matter where his path leads, this is who he is."
Her eyes returned to her son, lingering on his dark hair, the calm rise and fall of his chest. A tear slipped free, followed by a soft, resolute smile.
"Aeron Stark," she whispered.
She said it again, as though tasting the name, fitting it around him like a mantle. Then she nodded. "Yes. That will be his name."
She looked back at me, gratitude and certainty shining in her eyes.
"Very well." I looked at the fast asleep baby and smiled. "Welcome to the world, Aeron Stark."
---
Night yielded at last to dawn. The stars retreated from the heavens as the sun rose, spilling gold across the world. The clear morning sky promised a bright day, and the promise was reflected in the spirits of those gathered around the tower.
The Kingsguard, in particular, moved with visible relief. Mother and child were safe. In the final duty entrusted to them by their prince, they had not failed.
The calm did not last.
A few hours later, word came of riders approaching from the north—seven of them. My spectacles hummed softly as the Farsight spell activated, the world sharpening into impossible clarity. One by one, the identities of the horsemen were laid bare.
Eddard Stark rode at their head (who surprisingly, or not so surprisingly, didn't resemble the young actor who played his part. Rather he looked like a young Sean Bean). With him were Martyn Cassel, captain of his guards; Ethan Glover of Deepwood Motte, sole survivor of Brandon Stark's doomed party; Willam Dustin of Barrowlands; Theo Wull of the mountain clans; Mark Ryswell of the Rills; and Howland Reed of Greywater Watch.
Originally, only two of them were meant to survive what followed.
Thanks to me, every one of them will get to ride away with their lives.
"Alright gents, look alive. Our guests are here," I said to the Kingsguard, who were donning their armour. I went inside the canopy and called Elia. She extricated herself from Lyanna's side and came over to stand with me outside the tent. There we waited, hidden from view by the same spells that rendered our temporary residence invisible.
As the northmen came closer to the tower, they dismounted their horses and approached cautiously. Everyone stopped a few paces away from the Targaryen knights standing in front of the tower.
"Lord Stark," Ser Arthur greeted Eddard.
"Where is my sister?" was the first thing Eddard said.
"Safe," answered Ser Arthur.
Some of the tension seemed to bleed away from Eddard's shoulders on hearing that. "I looked for you on the Trident," he said to them.
"We were not there," answered Ser Gerold.
"Woe to the usurper if we had been," said Ser Oswell.
"When King's Landing fell, Ser Jaime slew your king with a golden sword, and I wondered where you were," said Eddard, more to himself than to the others.
"Far away," said Ser Gerold, "or Aerys would yet sit the Iron Throne, and our false brother would burn in seven hells."
"I came down on Storm's End to lift the siege," said Eddard. "And the Lords Tyrell and Redwyne dipped their banners, and all their knights bent the knee to pledge us fealty. I was certain you would be among them."
"Our knees do not bend easily," said Ser Arthur.
"Ser Willem Darry is fled to Dragonstone, with your Queen and Prince Viserys," said Eddard. "I thought you might have sailed with them."
"Ser Willem is a good man and true," said Ser Oswell.
"But not of the Kingsguard," Ser Gerold pointed out. "The Kingsguard does not flee."
"Then or now," said Ser Arthur.
"We swore a vow," said Ser Gerold.
Eddard's companions moved up beside him, swords in hand. They were seven against three.
"Now it ends," Eddard said with sadness in his voice.
"No, Lord Stark," I interjected. "Now it begins."
Eddard flinched at the sound coming from what appeared to have been empty space moments before. Said space now contained a small tent with two people standing in front of it. Any thoughts on how he could have missed such an obvious detail fled his mind however, when he looked at the woman's face.
"Princess Elia?" he uttered dazedly. For a moment, Eddard wondered if the desert heat had finally gotten to his head. "How can it be?!" He shook his head in confusion. "I saw... I saw your corpse!"
Dragonspawn.
That was the only word Robert Baratheon, the new king of the seven kingdoms, had uttered with vicious satisfaction upon laying eyes on the butchered remains of the Targaryen Royal family. Eddard on the other hand, had been rightfully appalled at the inhumane treatment meted out to the innocent woman and her children.
He had called for justice. However, Tywin Lannister had shirked responsibility saying that the perpetrator, Gregor Clegane had fled and couldn't be found. Hah, a likely story!
Robert's lack of concern over this heinous atrocity, as well as the absence of punishment for the barbaric actions of the Lannister armies against the people of King's Landing disgusted him so much that he had left the burning Capital without another word, choosing instead to search for his sister.
Since that day, every time he closed his eyes at night he would see the broken bodies of Elia and her children in his dreams. Her tragically beautiful face, with eyes open even in death, haunted him, tormenting him as if foretelling a similar fate for his sister.
To see that same woman standing before him looking hale and hearty, left him mighty befuddled.
"All your questions will be answered, Lord Stark," Elia said with a gentle smile. "But first, don't you wish to see your sister? You came all this way to find her, didn't you?" She turned around and entered the tent.
Her sudden disappearance caused a big stir among our guests, many of whom were now looking at the tent with frightened eyes.
"Do not be alarmed," I said. "It's just a magic tent—much bigger on the inside than it looks from the outside."
My words didn't seem to have the desired effect. Eddard and his companions remained where they were, watching the mysterious canopy with wary gazes.
"Rest assured, Lord Stark. There is no treachery afoot here," said Ser Gerold. "Lady Lyanna awaits you inside."
Fortunately, Eddard chose to have faith in Ser Gerold's words. He and his men sheathed their swords and made for the tent.
"Just you, Lord Stark," I requested. "Your sister is still recovering."
"Recovering from what?" asked Eddard, perplexed.
"You'll see." I gestured to the tent.
With one hand on the hilt of his sword as precaution, Eddard walked into the tent. The usual look of amazement dawned on his face as he entered the living room, before it was swiftly replaced with confusion as he beheld the sight of Prince Doran, Oberyn, Areo and Maester Caleotte. I went ahead and opened the door to the room Lyanna was resting in.
"Everything will be explained soon," I promised.
Eddard held my gaze for a moment, before walking through the door to find his sister in bed. She was wearing a clean dress and looking like the very picture of health, with no traces left to show the ordeal she had undergone just a few hours prior. Such was the power of magic.
"Lya," Eddard whispered, rushing to his sister's side and embracing her warmly. Tears ran down her cheeks as Lyanna hugged her brother after what seemed like ages.
"Thank the gods. I thought you dead," Eddard said as they came apart. "How are you?"
"I am well, Ned," Lyanna smiled weakly at her brother's concerned tone. She looked at Elia, who came forward carrying her son.
"Ned, there's someone I'd like you to meet," she said, taking the babe into her arms.
"Who's this?" said Eddard, his gaze drawn to the bright grey eyes of the little boy.
"This is your nephew, Aeron," she smiled at her son. "Aeron Stark."
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