Chapter 2

Ned Stark, flanked by Howland Reed, Ethan Glover, Ser Mark Ryswell, Theo Wull, Martyn Cassel, and Lord William Dustin, arrives at the Tower of Joy in Dorne. Their journey has been long and fraught with danger, but their resolve is unyielding as they approach the tower, their hearts heavy with anticipation and dread. As they draw closer to their destination, the air is thick with tension, each man silently steeling himself for what lies ahead. With determination etched into their faces, they prepare to uncover the secrets that await them within the tower's walls.

As Ned Stark and his companions approach the Tower of Joy, they are greeted by the imposing figures of Ser Oswell Whent and Lord Commander Gerold Hightower standing guard at its foot. Their presence sends a shiver down the men's spines, knowing they stand in the presence of two legendary knights.

However, one figure is notably absent. Ser Arthur Dayne, Sword of the Morning, is nowhere to be seen, his absence raising questions and deepening the sense of unease that pervades the scene. Ned's eyes narrow as he takes in the sight, his instincts telling him that something is amiss.

With tension thick in the air, Ned and his companions exchange wary glances, silently preparing themselves for the confrontation that lies ahead. The mystery of Ser Arthur Dayne's whereabouts weighs heavily on their minds as they steel themselves for whatever challenges may come their way.

As Ned Stark and his companions approached the Tower of Joy, their eyes fell upon Ser Oswell Whent and Lord Commander Gerold Hightower standing guard, their expressions as unreadable as the ancient stones that surrounded them. The absence of Ser Arthur Dayne, Sword of the Morning, hung heavy in the air, a conspicuous void in an otherwise familiar scene.

Ned's gaze narrowed as he surveyed the two knights before him, his voice steady but tinged with urgency. "Where is Ser Arthur Dayne?" he demanded, his eyes searching for any hint of deception in their response.

Lord Commander Hightower, a towering figure clad in gleaming armor, regarded Ned with a steely gaze. "Ser Arthur is attending to other matters," he replied cryptically, his voice betraying nothing of the truth behind his words.

Beside him, Ser Oswell Whent, his features obscured by the visor of his helm, remained silent, his stance unwavering as he bore the weight of Ned's scrutiny.

Ned exchanged a wary glance with his companions, their unease palpable in the air. "What matters could be more pressing than guarding this tower?" he pressed, his voice edged with impatience.

Lord Commander Hightower's lips formed a tight line, his resolve unyielding. "Some matters are beyond your concern, Lord Stark," he replied, his tone firm and authoritative.

Ned's jaw tightened, a flicker of frustration crossing his features. "I will not be deterred so easily, Lord Commander," he retorted, his gaze unwavering as he locked eyes with the imposing knight.

For a tense moment, silence hung between them, broken only by the distant rustle of wind through the leaves. Then, with a subtle nod from Lord Commander Hightower, Ser Oswell Whent stepped forward, his voice a low rumble beneath the helm.

"Lord Stark," he began, his tone measured, "you seek answers that may not be yours to find. Ser Arthur's absence is not for us to explain."

Ned's jaw clenched, his frustration mounting with each passing moment. "I have come too far to be turned away now," he insisted, his voice betraying the urgency of his mission.

But before the conversation could escalate further, a voice echoed from the tower above—a voice tinged with weariness and resignation, yet carrying a weight that could not be ignored.

"Enough, Ser Gerold," came the voice, its timbre familiar yet tinged with a hint of sadness. "Let them in."

Ned's heart skipped a beat as he recognized the voice, his resolve hardening as he prepared to uncover the truth that lay within the Tower of Joy. With a nod to his companions, he stepped forward, his eyes fixed on the towering structure before him, knowing that the answers he sought awaited him within its walls.

—

At the top of the Tower of Joy, Ned Stark and his companions were met with a sight that stirred both curiosity and uncertainty in their hearts. Ser Arthur Dayne and Lady Ashara Dayne stood before them, with a one-year-old child playing at her feet. A maester and a midwife attended to their duties nearby, their presence a reminder of the life that flourished within these walls.

Ned's heart seized in his chest as he beheld the sight before him—a sight that confirmed his darkest fears. Lyanna Stark, his beloved sister, lay pale and weary, a baby nestled against her breast. For a moment, the world seemed to blur around him as a cold dread settled in the pit of his stomach.

The implications of what he was seeing hit him like a thunderbolt, threatening to shatter his sense of reality. Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, the man who had abducted and dishonored Lyanna, had left behind this child—a living, breathing reminder of the unspeakable horrors she had endured.

A surge of anger and grief welled up within Ned, threatening to consume him. How could Rhaegar have done this to her? How could he have defiled her honor and sullied her name in such a vile manner?

As Ned's eyes searched Lyanna's face for answers, she could see the turmoil raging within him. With a deep breath, she gathered her resolve and spoke, her voice steady yet tinged with sadness.

"Ned," she began, her voice barely above a whisper, "you must know the truth. This child," she gestured to the babe cradled in her arms, "he is not the result of violence or dishonor. He is the son of Rhaegar Targaryen and me, conceived out of love."

Ned's eyes widened in astonishment, his mind struggling to grasp the magnitude of her revelation. For months, he had carried the weight of his sister's supposed abduction and rape by the prince of the realm. To learn that the truth was far more complex shook him to his core.

"But Lyanna," Ned stammered, his voice choked with emotion, "how... how could this be? Why did you not tell me?"

As Ned's voice trembled with emotion, Lyanna met his gaze with a mixture of sorrow and regret. "Ned," she began, her words weighed down by the burden of truth, "I couldn't tell you because... because I knew you wouldn't understand. You were so loyal to Robert, so blinded by your friendship with him. But Robert... he was not the man I could have been happy with. He was a drunkard, a whoremonger... and I knew that I could never find true happiness with him."

Ned's breath caught in his throat as he listened to her words, the revelation striking him like a blow to the chest. For years, he had idolized Robert Baratheon, his closest friend and brother in all but blood. To hear that Lyanna had found him lacking, unworthy of her love, shook him to his very core.

"And then," Lyanna continued, her voice trembling with emotion, "the tourney at Harrenhal happened. And there, amidst the pageantry and the revelry, I found myself drawn to two people who changed everything for me—Rhaegar and Elia. Their love, their kindness... it opened my eyes to a world beyond duty and obligation. A world where love knew no boundaries."

Tears welled in Ned's eyes as he listened to his sister's confession, the weight of her words settling heavily upon him. He had never known the depth of her feelings, the struggles she had endured in silence.

As Lyanna's voice wavered with emotion, Ser Arthur Dayne stepped forward, his eyes filled with a steely resolve. "Lord Rickard was under immense pressure from Robert to hasten the wedding arrangements," he explained, his voice firm and unwavering. "Lyanna had no choice but to take matters into her own hands."

Lyanna nodded in agreement, her expression somber. "I left a letter for Father in my chambers at Riverrun," she admitted, her voice tinged with regret. "I hoped to explain my actions, to spare him the pain of wondering what had become of me. But... but I fear someone may have found the letter and disposed of it."

Ned's heart clenched at the thought of his father receiving no word from Lyanna, left to wonder what had become of his beloved daughter. The anguish in his eyes mirrored the pain that echoed in Lyanna's voice as she continued her tale.

"And then..." Lyanna trailed off, her voice trembling with emotion. "Then I learned of Father and Brandon's deaths, and the chaos that had engulfed the realm. I knew I had to act swiftly, to protect myself and the child I carried."

Tears welled in Ned's eyes as he listened to his sister's words, the weight of her sorrow and regret pressing down upon him like a crushing weight. The realization that their family had been torn apart by forces beyond their control filled him with a sense of profound grief.

As Lyanna's tale unfolded, Ser Arthur Dayne stepped forward once more, his voice steady and resolute. "It was Prince Rhaegar's intention to honor Lyanna as his second wife," he explained, his words carrying the weight of solemnity. "At the Isle of Faces, in accordance with the ancient traditions of the First Men, as was the right of all members of the royal family under the Doctrine of Exceptionalism."

Ned's breath caught in his throat at the revelation, his mind struggling to comprehend the implications of what he was hearing. The notion that his sister had been taken as a second wife by the prince of the realm filled him with a sense of disbelief and outrage.

But even amidst his shock, a flicker of understanding began to dawn within Ned's mind—a recognition that the events that had transpired were steeped in the complex tapestry of Westerosi history and tradition.

"And what of Elia?" Ned asked, his voice hoarse with emotion. "What became of her and her children?"

Ser Arthur's expression darkened at the mention of Elia Martell and her children, his features clouded by a sense of sorrow and regret. "Prince Rhaegar intended to ensure their safety," he replied, his voice heavy with sadness. "But... but the events that followed... they spiraled beyond our control."

As Ser Arthur's somber words hung in the air, Ned's heart weighed heavy with sorrow for the fate of Princess Elia Martell and her children. With a determined expression, he stepped forward, his voice steady despite the turmoil raging within him.

"Ser Arthur," Ned began, his tone grave yet resolute, "I must inform you that Princess Elia and her children are alive and well. They have been made wards of the North by King Robert, entrusted to my care."

A flicker of surprise passed over Ser Arthur's features, his eyes widening in astonishment. "Alive?" he murmured, disbelief coloring his words. "But how... how is this possible?"

Ned's gaze softened with compassion as he recounted the events that had transpired since the end of Robert's Rebellion—the negotiations, the compromises, and the decisions that had shaped the future of the realm. He spoke of his own role in ensuring the safety of Elia and her children, of the promises made and the alliances forged in the aftermath of war.

"And now," Ned concluded, his voice tinged with resolve, "they are under my protection, as wards of House Stark. It is my duty to ensure their safety and well-being, as it is for all those who bear the name of Stark."

Ser Arthur nodded solemnly, his expression reflecting a mixture of relief and gratitude. "Thank you, Lord Stark," he said, his voice heavy with emotion. "Your compassion and mercy are a testament to the honor of your house."

As Ser Arthur's words of gratitude echoed through the chamber, Lyanna stepped forward, her eyes shining with a mixture of pride and sorrow. With a gentle touch, she guided Ned's gaze towards the babe cradled in her arms, his features a mirror image of the man who stood beside her.

"Ned," Lyanna began, her voice soft yet resolute, "this is your nephew. Prince Jaecaerys Targaryen."

Ned's heart skipped a beat as he beheld the child, his mind reeling with the implications of Lyanna's revelation. The realization that the babe before him was not only his blood but also a prince of the realm filled him with a sense of awe and responsibility.

"Jaecaerys," Ned whispered, his voice barely above a breath. "He is... he is beautiful."

Tears welled in Lyanna's eyes as she watched Ned's reaction, her heart swelling with pride and love for her brother and her son. In that moment, the weight of their shared burden seemed to lift, replaced by a sense of hope and renewal.

As Ned reached out to cradle the infant in his arms, a sense of profound peace washed over him, his doubts and fears melting away in the warmth of his nephew's embrace.

As Ned cradled Prince Jaecaerys in his arms, his gaze wandered to the boy playing at Ashara's feet. The child's features bore a striking resemblance to his late brother Brandon, yet there was one unmistakable difference—the hauntingly beautiful purple eyes that mirrored Ashara's own.

Curiosity flickered in Ned's eyes as he turned to Lyanna, a question lingering on his lips. "And who is this young lad?" he inquired, his voice gentle yet curious.

Lyanna's smile softened as she glanced down at the boy, a mixture of pride and sadness reflected in her eyes. "This is Cregan," she replied, her voice tinged with emotion. "He is... he is the son of Brandon and Ashara, our nephew."

As Lyanna's words settled over him, Ned felt a wave of disbelief wash over him. The revelation that Brandon and Ashara had a son together left him stunned, his mind reeling with the implications of such a revelation. He had known of their flirtation during the Tourney of Harrenhal, but the idea that they had been intimate and had a child was a revelation he had never expected.

With a heavy heart, Ned mustered the courage to voice the question that lingered in his mind, though he struggled to find the right words. "Lyanna," he began, his voice filled with a mixture of concern and curiosity, "is... is Cregan...?"

As Ned's question hung in the air, a tense silence settled over the room, broken only by the soft sound of Cregan's laughter as he played at Ashara's feet. Sensing Ned's uncertainty, Ashara stepped forward, her gaze steady as she met his eyes.

"Ned," she began, her voice calm yet resolute, "Brandon and I also married at the Isle of Faces, under the tradition of the First Men, during the Tourney of Harrenhal."

Ned's heart skipped a beat at the revelation, his mind struggling to comprehend the implications of Ashara's words. The idea that Brandon and Ashara had been married, that Cregan was not a bastard but a legitimate child of their union, filled him with a sense of relief and gratitude.

As the weight of the truth settled over him, Ned felt a sense of peace wash over him, his doubts and fears melting away in the warmth of Ashara's assurance. And as he looked upon Cregan with renewed understanding, he knew that no matter the circumstances of his birth, he would always be a Stark in Ned's eyes, deserving of all the love and protection that House Stark could provide.

As the truth of Cregan's parentage became clear, a sense of clarity washed over Ned, dispelling the doubts and uncertainties that had clouded his mind. With a newfound resolve, he turned to his fellow Northern Lords, his voice steady and strong.

"My lords," Ned began, his words carrying the weight of authority and conviction, "I present to you Lord Cregan Stark, trueborn son of my late brother Brandon Stark and Lady Ashara Dayne. He is the rightful Lord of Winterfell and the Warden of the North."

A ripple of murmurs swept through the chamber as the Northern Lords absorbed Ned's proclamation, their expressions ranging from surprise to reverence. But amidst the whispers and the shifting of feet, one thing remained clear—Cregan Stark was their liege lord, deserving of their loyalty and respect.

With a sense of purpose, Ned stepped forward, placing a hand on Cregan's shoulder in a gesture of solidarity and support. Together, they would lead House Stark into a new era, guided by the strength of their bonds and the enduring legacy of their ancestors.

And as they looked towards the future, Ned knew that House Stark would thrive under Cregan's leadership, united by the shared values of honor, duty, and family that had defined them for generations. With Cregan at the helm, Winterfell would remain steadfast and unyielding, a beacon of hope and strength in the face of whatever challenges lay ahead.

As Ned's proclamation echoed through the chamber, Ashara, Lyanna, and Ser Arthur Dayne exchanged glances, their expressions a mixture of pride, relief, and determination.

Ashara's eyes shone with unshed tears as she beheld her son, a sense of awe and gratitude filling her heart. Though she had feared for Cregan's future in a world that would judge him for his parentage, she now saw hope and promise reflected in Ned's words. With a smile of gratitude, she reached out to grasp Cregan's hand, silently vowing to stand by him as he assumed his rightful place as Lord of Winterfell.

Lyanna's gaze softened as she watched her nephew, a swell of pride swelling within her. Though she had known the truth of Cregan's parentage, she had feared for his future in a world torn apart by war and strife. But now, as she witnessed Ned's unwavering support and the respect of their fellow Northern Lords, she felt a sense of relief wash over her. With a nod of approval, she stepped forward to stand beside Cregan, offering him her guidance and support as he embarked on his new role as Lord of Winterfell.

Ser Arthur Dayne's expression remained stoic, his features betraying little emotion as he observed the scene before him. Though he harbored his own doubts and concerns about Cregan's ability to lead House Stark in the tumultuous times ahead, he knew that the boy had the strength and resilience to rise to the challenge. With a silent nod of acknowledgement, he pledged his loyalty to Cregan, vowing to stand by his side as he assumed his rightful place as Lord of Winterfell.

—

As the weight of Ned's proclamation settled over them, the group gathered to discuss the delicate matter of hiding Lyanna and Jaecaerys to prevent Robert from going on another warpath if he were to find out the truth.

Ned's voice was low, yet firm as he addressed the group. "We must take every precaution to ensure the safety of Lyanna and Jaecaerys," he began, his eyes scanning the room to gauge their reactions. "Robert's fury knows no bounds when it comes to the Targaryens, and if he were to learn of Jaecaerys's existence, it could lead to another devastating conflict."

Ashara nodded in agreement, her expression grave as she considered their options. "We must find a secure location to hide them, far from the prying eyes of those who would seek to harm them," she suggested. "Somewhere remote, where they can remain safe until the storm passes."

As Ashara's suggestion hung in the air, Lord Howland Reed stepped forward, his voice measured yet resolute. "My lords and ladies," he began, addressing the group with a sense of urgency, "if it is a secure location you seek, then Greywater Watch is the answer."

Ned's eyebrows raised in surprise at the suggestion, his interest piqued by the prospect of hiding Lyanna and Jaecaerys in the secluded swamps of the Neck. "Greywater Watch?" he repeated, his tone curious yet cautious. "Why do you think your keep is the best option, Howland?"

Lord Reed's gaze was steady as he met Ned's eyes, his conviction unwavering as he spoke. "Greywater Watch is unlike any other stronghold in the North," he explained. "Hidden amidst the vast swamps of the Neck, it is nigh impossible to find without a guide who knows the way."

Ashara's expression softened as she considered Lord Reed's words, a sense of relief washing over her at the prospect of finding refuge in such a remote and secure location. "And what of the safety of Lyanna and Jaecaerys?" she inquired, her voice tinged with hope.

Lord Reed's response was immediate, his confidence unwavering as he addressed her concerns. "I will personally ensure their safety," he declared, his tone resolute. "With the marshes of the Neck as our shield, no harm will come to them while they remain under my protection."

As Ser Oswell and Ser Gerold pledged their unwavering loyalty to protect Lyanna and Prince Jaecaerys, Ned's heart swelled with gratitude for their steadfast commitment. "Your dedication to their safety does you honor," he said, his voice filled with respect. "I entrust their lives to your care, knowing that you will guard them with the same valor and honor that has always defined the Kingsguard."

Ser Oswell and Ser Gerold nodded solemnly, their expressions resolute as they prepared to embark on their journey to Greywater Watch. "We will not fail you, my lord," Ser Oswell vowed, his tone unwavering. "The safety of Lady Lyanna and Prince Jaecaerys is our highest priority, and we will defend them with our lives if need be."

Ned turned to Martyn Cassel and Theo Wull, his instructions clear and concise. "You will accompany Ser Oswell and Ser Gerold on their journey to Greywater Watch," he instructed, his voice steady. "Ensure that Lady Lyanna and Prince Jaecaerys reach their destination safely and discreetly, without drawing attention to themselves."

Martyn Cassel and Theo Wull nodded in understanding, their determination evident as they prepared to fulfill their mission. "You can count on us, my lord," Martyn declared, his voice firm. "We will see to it that Lady Lyanna and Prince Jaecaerys reach Greywater Watch without incident, and that their presence remains known to none but those who can be trusted."

As Martyn Cassel and Theo Wull pledged their loyalty to the mission, Ned felt a surge of confidence in their abilities. "Thank you, Martyn, Theo," he said, his voice filled with gratitude. "Your dedication to our cause does you credit, and I trust that you will carry out your duties with the utmost diligence and discretion."

With their plans set in motion, Ned shifted his focus to the journey ahead. "Ashara, Cregan, Ser Arthur," he addressed them, his tone serious yet resolute. "We must make for King's Landing without delay, where Cregan will be introduced as the future Lord of Winterfell."

Ashara nodded in agreement, her determination evident. "We must ensure that Cregan's claim is recognized and respected by all," she stated firmly. "With your guidance, Ned, I have no doubt he will prove himself a worthy leader of House Stark."

Cregan's anticipation was palpable as he gazed up at Ned with wide eyes. "I be good Stark," he declared with a toothy grin, his baby voice filled with innocence and determination. "With Unca Ned help, me do good job." 

Ned couldn't help but smile at Cregan's earnestness, feeling a swell of affection for the young boy. "You'll be the best Stark there ever was," he assured him, ruffling Cregan's hair affectionately.

Ser Arthur's presence provided reassurance to the group. "I will accompany you to King's Landing," he declared resolutely. "Together, we will secure Cregan's rightful place and ensure the stability of House Stark in the realm."

With their plans for King's Landing in motion, Ned subtly suggested their next move. "Once our business in the capital is concluded," he proposed, "Ser Arthur shall return to the North under the guise of training his nephew Cregan in the ways of a knight. In truth, however, his true purpose will be to watch over Princess Elia and her children, ensuring their safety and well-being."

The others nodded in agreement, recognizing the importance of this mission. Ser Arthur, in particular, understood the gravity of the situation and vowed to carry out his duty with unwavering dedication.

And so, with their resolve firm and their purpose clear, Ned, Ashara, Cregan, and Ser Arthur set forth on their journey, prepared to face whatever challenges lay ahead in their quest to safeguard the future of House Stark.

—

Cregan's POV

As we entered the throne room of the Red Keep, my hand firmly clasped in Uncle Ned's, I couldn't help but feel a sense of awe mixed with disdain. Mother and Uncle Arthur trailed close behind, their presence offering me silent support. My eyes scanned the room, taking in the grandeur of the surroundings, yet my gaze ultimately settled on the figure seated upon the Iron Throne.

Robert Baratheon, a man of immense physical stature, sat upon the grotesque monstrosity that was the Iron Throne. It was hard to fathom that so much blood had been shed over this symbol of power and tyranny. From my vantage point, I could see Jon Arryn standing dutifully at the foot of the throne, his expression betraying a mixture of weariness and resolve.

As Robert Baratheon's gaze fell upon Ser Arthur Dayne, a ripple of tension coursed through the throne room. His booming voice cut through the air, filled with disdain and hostility. "And what, pray tell, does the Lickspittle of the Dragonspawn think he's doing here?" 

Ser Arthur remained stoic, his expression unreadable as he faced the wrath of the newly crowned king. His unwavering composure stood as a testament to his unwavering dedication to duty, even in the face of such open hostility.

Uncle Ned stepped forward, his voice calm yet firm. "Ser Arthur is here as a representative of House Dayne," he explained, his tone tinged with a hint of warning. "He bears no allegiance to the Targaryens, only to his duty as a knight of the Kingsguard."

Robert's gaze flickered between Ser Arthur and Uncle Ned, his expression hardening with suspicion. "And what does House Stark want with the likes of him?" he demanded, his tone laced with distrust.

Uncle Ned's response was measured, his words chosen carefully. "House Stark seeks peace and stability for the realm," he stated, his voice steady. "And Ser Arthur has pledged his support to that cause."

As Jon Arryn changed the subject, redirecting the conversation away from the tension between Robert and Ser Arthur, he turned his attention to Uncle Ned, his gaze lingering on me. "And who might this young lad be?" he inquired, his tone genial yet curious, indicating towards me.

Uncle Ned's expression softened as he glanced down at me, a proud smile touching his lips. "This is Cregan Stark, trueborn son of Lord Beadon Stark and Lady Ashara Dayne, the future Lord of Winterfell," he introduced, his voice filled with a sense of pride. "He is here to assume his rightful position and to ensure the stability of House Stark in the realm."

Robert Baratheon and Jon Arryn exchanged incredulous glances, their expressions a mixture of shock and disbelief.

After a long pause, Robert Baratheon's booming laughter filled the room, echoing off the stone walls of the Red Keep. "Well, well," he chuckled, his voice rich with amusement. "Brandon Stark, you lucky bastard! To have won the heart of a beauty like Ashara Dayne!"

Jon Arryn's lips twitched in amusement as he struggled to contain his own laughter, though a hint of incredulity lingered in his eyes. "Indeed, it seems the gods have smiled upon House Stark," he remarked, his tone laced with amusement.

As Robert Baratheon observed me closely, noting the resemblance to my father but with my mother's eyes, a wry smile tugged at the corners of my lips. Internally, I couldn't help but roll my eyes at the familiarity of those words, a sentiment that echoed from memories of a past life.

"Indeed," Robert Baratheon remarked with a nod, his tone contemplative. "A Stark through and through, with a touch of Dayne's beauty."

I offered a polite nod in response, though inwardly, I couldn't help but feel a sense of irony at the recognition of my parentage. It seemed that fate had a way of weaving intricate patterns, connecting the threads of my past and present lives in ways that I could never have imagined. I had constantly heard in my last life that I looked like my father, except I had my mother's eyes. The same was true in this life.

"Lord Cregan Stark," Robert declared with authority, "as a gift to the future Warden of the North, I hereby announce your betrothal to Princess Rhaenys Targaryen."

As Robert's booming voice echoed through the throne room, announcing my betrothal to Princess Rhaenys Targaryen, daughter of Prince Rhaegar and Princess Elia, a wave of murmurs rippled through the courtiers. My gaze flicked to Uncle Ned, noting the mixture of surprise and concern etched upon his features.

His words hung heavy in the air, laden with the weight of political maneuvering. I listened closely as Robert outlined the terms of the betrothal, my mind racing to grasp the implications. The crown would pay for the refurbishing of Moat Cailin as part of Rhaenys Targaryen's dowry, a subtle reminder of the strategic value of our alliance.

But the true weight of Robert's announcement came with his revelation about Prince Aegon Targaryen. He would have to choose between taking the Black or becoming a maester immediately after the wedding. It was a stark reminder of the ruthless politics at play and the sacrifices demanded of those entwined in the affairs of the realm.

As Robert spoke, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was being swept into a game of thrones far beyond my understanding. The betrothal was not merely an act of goodwill—it was a calculated move to consolidate Robert's power and undermine the claims of the Targaryen heirs.

I held my composure outwardly, but inwardly, I grappled with the weight of the revelation. The story of Harry Potter, the boy who lived and died after defeating Voldemort, had ended. But the story of Cregan Stark was just beginning. I resolved to navigate the treacherous waters of politics with cunning and foresight, determined not to become a pawn in the game of thrones.

—

General POV

Ned's expression remained stoic, betraying none of the turmoil that churned within him. He knew that accepting Robert's terms was the only viable option, given the delicate balance of power and the precariousness of the realm's stability.

With a heavy heart, Ned nodded in acquiescence, his voice steady as he voiced his acceptance. "We accept your terms, Your Grace," he stated, his tone measured and resolute. "May this betrothal bring peace and prosperity to both our houses and to the realm."

Though the words were spoken with outward calm, inwardly, Ned grappled with the weight of his decision. He understood the sacrifices that were being made in the name of political expediency, and he prayed that they would not come at too great a cost to his family or to the realm he had sworn to protect.

"Your Grace," Ser Arthur began, addressing Robert Baratheon with a solemn reverence, "I humbly request to be relieved of my duties as a member of the Kingsguard."

The declaration sent a ripple of surprise through the throne room, as those gathered exchanged uncertain glances. But Ser Arthur's gaze remained steady, his resolve unyielding as he continued. "I wish to accompany my nephew, Lord Cregan Stark, to Winterfell," he explained, his voice steady with determination. "To teach him in the ways of knighthood, as befits his station as the future Lord of Winterfell."

Robert Baratheon considered Ser Arthur's request for a moment, his expression thoughtful. "Very well, Ser Arthur," he finally replied, his voice carrying the weight of authority. "Your service to the realm has been exemplary, and I see no reason to deny you this request. You are released from your vows as a member of the Kingsguard."

A murmur of agreement rippled through the throne room as Ser Arthur's request was granted, and the knight bowed his head in gratitude before turning to face me with a reassuring smile. "We have much to prepare for, my lord," he said, his tone warm with encouragement. "But together, we shall honor the legacy of House Stark and ensure that its future is bright and enduring."

As they turned to leave, Robert's booming voice pierced the air, demanding answers about Lyanna's fate at the Tower of Joy. His tone held a mixture of impatience and frustration, as if the mention of her name stirred up long-buried emotions.

"Ned," Robert called out, his voice carrying across the throne room, "what happened to Lyanna at the Tower of Joy?"

Ned's voice was steady as he responded to Robert's inquiry about Lyanna's fate. "Lyanna died of a fever," he stated simply, his words carrying a weight of finality. 

Robert's expression softened at the news, a flicker of sadness crossing his features. "A fever," he echoed, his voice tinged with regret. "Such a cruel fate for one so full of life."

There was a moment of solemn silence as the reality of Lyanna's passing settled over the throne room, a stark reminder of the fragility of life and the inevitability of death.

—

Cregan Stark's POV

As we departed the throne room, the weight of Uncle Ned's words lingered in the air like an unspoken truth. Lyanna's supposed death by fever had been accepted without question by those in attendance, yet I couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to the story than met the eye.

Standing in the heart of King's Landing, I couldn't ignore the nagging doubts that tugged at the corners of my mind. The lie Uncle Ned had just spoken to the court was a stark departure from the principles of honor and integrity that his mother had told him defined his uncle.

As I pondered the implications of his deception, I couldn't help but wonder what other secrets lay hidden beneath the surface. Had Uncle Ned's loyalties and priorities shifted in the wake of recent events?

The truth remained elusive, concealed behind a veil of half-truths and whispered rumors. But one thing was certain: the game of thrones was a dangerous and treacherous game, and in order to survive, one had to be willing to navigate its murky depths with cunning and caution.

With each step we took, I felt the weight of responsibility settle upon my shoulders, a reminder that the story of Cregan Stark was just beginning, and the path ahead was fraught with peril and uncertainty.

---

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