Two weeks later, the dust clouds on the coastal road heralded the return of the carriage.
Ned stood on the battlements of Starfall, Cregan in his arms, watching the wheelhouse rumble across the causeway. It moved slowly, the horses plodding with the fatigue of the Red Mountains.
Arthur rode beside it. He sat tall in the saddle, his white cloak stained with red dust, but Dawn was strapped to his back, gleaming in the sunlight. He wasn't hiding. He was the Sword of the Morning, returning from war.
"He's back," Ned whispered to his son. "Your uncle is back."
Cregan burbled, reaching for a seagull that was soaring past, uninterested in the politics of knights and kings.
Ned walked down to the courtyard. Ashara met him there, her face pale but composed. She knew—or thought she knew—what was in the carriage. The remains of Lyanna Stark.
The carriage stopped. Arthur dismounted. He didn't smile, but he didn't look like a broken man. He looked like a man who had completed a long, hard duty.
"Lord Stark," Arthur said, nodding to Ned. Then he turned to his sister. "Ashara."
"Arthur," she breathed, relief washing over her.
Lord Alaric Dayne hobbled down the steps, his cane tapping rhythmically. He looked at the carriage, draped in heavy canvas to protect it from the sun.
"Is it done?" Alaric asked quietly.
"It is," Arthur said. "The Tower is empty. The dead are... at peace."
Ned stepped forward. He handed Cregan to a nursemaid and placed a hand on Lord Alaric's shoulder.
"Thank you, good-father," Ned said, using the familial term with a weight of gratitude. "For the carriage. For the ship. For harboring my family while I finished this grim business."
"You are kin now, Ned," Alaric said. "Starfall helps its own. Will you... will you place her in the sept for the night?"
"No," Ned said quickly, his voice tight. "The ship is ready. I would prefer to load the... cargo... now. We sail at dawn. I want to get her home. The crypts of Winterfell are waiting."
Alaric nodded understandingly. "As you wish. The dead should not be kept waiting. The Star of the South is provisioned."
"Then we load," Ned said.
He signaled to Arthur. They didn't let the household servants touch the carriage. Howland Reed, who had driven the team, hopped down. Together, the three men—Ned, Arthur, and Howland—guided the carriage down to the docks themselves, citing respect for the noble dead.
In reality, they were guarding the living.
---
The next morning, the docks of Starfall were bathed in golden light. The Star of the South bobbed gently in the harbor, a sleek galley with sails dyed violet and silver.
Ned stood on the pier, Cregan back in his arms. Ashara stood beside him, holding a travel cloak tight around her shoulders against the sea breeze. She looked back at the castle that had been her home for twenty years.
Lord Alaric Dayne looked at his family. He looked old today. He was losing his daughter and his grandson to the frozen North.
"The North is far," Alaric said, his voice gruff.
"It is," Ned agreed. "But the road is open. You will always have a hearth at Winterfell, good-father. Come spring, you must visit. Cregan will need to know his mother's land."
Alaric looked at Cregan. He reached out with a trembling hand and touched the boy's cheek.
"Grow strong, little wolf," Alaric whispered. "And remember where the stars fall."
Cregan grabbed his grandfather's finger and shook it. "Ba!"
Alaric smiled, a sad crinkling of eyes. He turned to Ashara.
"Be happy, daughter," he said. "That is all I ask."
"I will, Father," Ashara promised, kissing his cheek. "I will write. Every moon."
Alaric turned finally to Arthur.
"And you," Alaric said. "You leave with them?"
"I do," Arthur said. He wasn't wearing the white armor today. He wore the lavender of his House, though Dawn still hung at his hip. "The Kingsguard... it died with Aerys. Robert Baratheon has no love for me, and I have no love for him. But I still have people whom I want to guard."
"You are always the Sword of the Morning," Alaric reminded him. "Wherever you go."
"I know," Arthur said.
"Protect them," Alaric commanded. "Protect my blood."
"With my life," Arthur vowed.
They embraced—a stiff, warrior's hug that spoke volumes.
"Go," Alaric said, stepping back. "Before the tide turns."
Ned bowed. He led his family up the gangplank. The sailors cast off the lines. The great sails unfurled, catching the wind with a snap like a cracking whip.
As the ship pulled away, churning the blue water into white foam, Ned looked back. He saw the lonely figure of Lord Dayne standing on the pier, watching them go until he was just a speck against the pale stone of Starfall.
---
The Star of the South cut through the Summer Sea. The deck pitched gently, a soothing rhythm that seemed to lull Cregan to sleep almost immediately.
Ned stood at the rail, watching the coastline of Dorne recede. Starfall was gone, hidden behind the cliffs.
He looked at Arthur.
Arthur was leaning against the mast, watching the sailors. He caught Ned's eye and nodded. A sharp, almost imperceptible dip of the chin.
It's time.
Ned turned to Ashara. She was sitting on a bench, shielding Cregan from the sun with her shawl.
"Ashara," Ned said softly.
She looked up. "Yes?"
"Come with me," Ned said. "Bring Cregan."
"Where?"
"Below decks," Ned said. "There is... there is something you need to see. Something Arthur brought back."
Ashara frowned, sensing the change in his tone. It wasn't the voice of her husband; it was the voice of the Lord of Winterfell. Serious. Guarded.
"Is something wrong?" she asked, standing up. "Is it... the body?"
"No," Ned said. "But there are things I haven't told you. Things I couldn't say on land, where walls have ears."
He held out his hand. She took it.
Arthur pushed off the mast and led the way. They walked past the busy crew, down the narrow stairs into the belly of the ship. The air here was cooler, smelling of tar and timber.
Arthur led them past the main cabins, past the galley, to a heavy door at the far end of the passageway. It was the door to the captain's private quarters, which Ned had requisitioned for the "coffins."
Arthur stopped at the door. He turned to face them. He looked grim.
Ned turned to Ashara. He took both her hands in his.
"Ashara," Ned said. "I need you to make a vow."
Ashara's violet eyes widened. She looked from Ned to Arthur. "A vow?"
"What you are about to see," Ned said, "must never be spoken of. Not to your father. Not to your sisters. Not to a living soul outside of this room. It is treason. It is dangerous. It is the only thing that matters."
Ashara felt a chill that had nothing to do with the sea air. "You're frightening me, Ned."
"I need you to promise," Ned insisted. "On Cregan's life. On our love. You will never reveal this secret."
Ashara looked at him. She saw the fear in his eyes—not for himself, but for her, for their son, for the future.
"I promise," she whispered. "On my life. On Cregan's life. I vow it."
Ned nodded. He released her hands.
He looked at Arthur.
"Open it."
Arthur unlatched the door and swung it inward.
---
The cabin was large, lit by lanterns swinging from the beams. It was furnished comfortably, with a wide bed bolted to the floor and thick carpets.
There were no coffins.
Sitting on the bed, propped up by pillows, was a woman. She was pale, her dark hair braided back, her grey eyes sharp and intelligent.
Ashara gasped. Her hand flew to her mouth.
"Lyanna?"
Lyanna Stark smiled weakly. "Hello, Ashara."
Ashara stumbled forward. She looked at Lyanna as if she were seeing a ghost. "But... the carriage... the box... Ned said..."
"Ned lied," Lyanna said softly.
Ashara turned to Ned, shock warring with confusion. "You said she was dead. You said we were burying her."
"I had to," Ned said, closing the door and bolting it. "To keep her alive. To keep him alive."
Ashara looked back at the bed. And then she saw it.
In Lyanna's arms, wrapped in a blanket of Stark grey wool, was a baby.
He was awake, his dark eyes staring up at the swinging lanterns. He had a tuft of dark brown hair.
Ashara stared. The pieces of the puzzle slammed together in her mind with the force of a thunderclap. The Tower of Joy. The Kingsguard. The secrecy.
"Rhaegar," Ashara whispered.
"His son," Lyanna confirmed, looking down at the baby. "And mine."
Ashara sank onto a stool, her legs giving out. She clutched Cregan to her chest as if to protect him from the truth.
"A Targaryen," Ashara breathed. "The heir to the throne."
"No," Ned said sharply. He stepped into the room, standing between Ashara and the bed. "Not a Targaryen. Not an heir."
He looked at the baby.
"His name is Jon," Ned said. "Jon Stark."
Ashara looked up at her husband. "Ned... Robert will start a war. If he finds out..."
"That is why Robert will never find out," Ned said.
He knelt in front of her.
"To the world, Lyanna Stark died of a fever in the mountains of Dorne. I am taking them to Winterfell. That story stands. It never changes."
"But the baby?" Ashara asked, looking at the infant. "You can't hide a baby."
"I won't hide him," Ned said. "I will claim him."
He took Ashara's hand.
"He is my bastard," Ned said clearly. "That is the lie. He is my son, born of a woman I met during the campaign. His mother died giving birth to him. I am bringing him home to raise him."
Ashara blinked. "You would... you would dishonor yourself? You would claim a bastard, just weeks after marrying me?"
"To save his life? Yes," Ned said. "And to save Lyanna's."
"And Lyanna?"
"Lyanna is dead," Ned said, his voice hard. "The woman in this bed... she is a distant cousin of House Stark. She has agreed to this."
Ashara looked at Lyanna. She saw the grief in the other woman's eyes. The sacrifice. Lyanna was giving up her name, her life, her identity, just to keep her son breathing.
"You would do this?" Ashara asked Lyanna. "You would watch your brother raise your son as a bastard?"
"I would watch him live," Lyanna whispered fiercely. "That is all that matters."
"And not as a bastard forever," Ned added, his voice filled with determination. "When we reach King's Landing, I will go to Robert. I will tell him Lyanna is dead."
He looked at his wife.
"And then I will ask the King to legitimize my children."
"Cregan and Jon."
"Both of them?" Ashara asked, stunned.
"Both," Ned said firmly. "Cregan will be Cregan Stark, my trueborn heir. And Jon... Jon will be Jon Stark. My younger son. Brothers."
"Robert would agree to this?"
"Robert owes me," Ned said grimly. "He owes me a debt of blood and grief. He will do it to ease his own conscience. And if Jon is a Stark by royal decree... no one will ever look for a dragon under the wolf's cloak."
Ashara looked at the two babies. Cregan, her son, the heir. And Jon, the secret prince, the brother.
"They look alike," Ashara noted softly. "The dark hair. The eyes."
"The Stark blood is strong," Lyanna said.
Ashara stood up. She walked over to the bed.
"Can I hold him?" Lyanna asked softly, looking at the toddler in Ashara's arms. "My nephew?"
Ashara smiled gently. "Of course."
She carefully handed Cregan to Lyanna. Lyanna shifted Jon to one arm and took Cregan in the other. The weight of the two boys settled against her.
Cregan looked at Lyanna. He reached out and tugged a loose strand of her dark hair.
Lyanna laughed, a bright, clear sound that filled the small cabin. She kissed Cregan's cheek. "Hello, Cregan. You are a big wolf, aren't you?"
Cregan giggled and patted Jon on the head, perhaps a bit too enthusiastically. "Baby!"
"Yes, baby," Lyanna cooed, protecting Jon's head with her hand. "This is Jon. Your brother."
Ashara watched them—the "dead" woman holding the future of House Stark in her arms. The fear in her chest began to ease, replaced by a fierce protectiveness.
"We are a pack," Ashara said, repeating the words they had shared in Starfall. "The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives."
Howland Reed stepped out from the shadows of the corner where he had been watching. "The ship is secure. The crew are Dayne men, loyal to Arthur. They won't talk."
"And Wylla?" Ashara asked, looking at the wet nurse who was folding linens.
"Wylla will confirm the story," Arthur said from the door. "If anyone asks, she tended the mother who died. She knows the stakes."
Ned looked around the room. The conspirators.
"We sail for King's Landing first," Ned said. "I will share news to Robert. I have to get the writ of legitimization for Cregan and Jon. Then... then we go home."
"To Winterfell," Lyanna whispered, hugging Cregan tight.
"To Winterfell," Ned agreed.
Arthur Dayne watched them, his hand resting on the pommel of Dawn which he had reclaimed for the journey. He was no longer a Kingsguard, but he was still a guardian.
"The sea is calm," Arthur said. "It's a good omen."
"Let's hope it stays that way," Ned said.
The Star of the South sailed on, carrying a dead woman, a fake bastard, a secret prince, and the hope of the future into the gathering twilight.