Bastard

It was deadly silent, even with the clashing of steel against steel outside, in the bloody corridors and the teeming centres, as Robert's rebellion raged on still. The only sounds that punctured the silence of the room were the mews and coos of the babe clasped tight in the warmth of Ned's fur cloak, and Lyanna's heaved breathing.

"Isn't he beautiful?" she said with a struggle, unable to move from her sunken position on the bed. Around her pale skin were pools of blood, mostly clotted at the side of her legs, the inside of her thighs, and near her maidenhead. Almost three months early had the babe arrived, and it had done more damage to her than the latter, not to mention birthing in the midst of a battle had put much stress on the poor girl.

"Yes," Ned agreed, though mostly only to ease his younger sister's nerves. Never was she afraid of death, always challenging him with his own sword that she had stolen from his bedroom, ever causing mayhem and climbing towers, despite the chagrin of their kin.

Yet now, when she saw herself the crimson that had collected in the sheets and ungracefully clung to her skin, the realisation of her own death hit her like a rapier slicing through a torso.

She was going to die. And there was nothing she could do about it.

"I'm glad he looks more like a Stark," Lyanna said again, the ghost of a smile across her pretty face, "I wouldn't have minded him having Rhaegar's white locks, or his violet eyes, but in a way I'm glad." She held back a wince and closed her eyes. "He won't be slandered this way. Not with those Stark curls..."

Ned, if for a moment, was baffled. "You talk as if you won't be the one raising him."

With a hint of amusement, she reopened her eyes to look at her brother. So tall and noble; broad shoulders; a face that could be so very kind and then be so very intimidating with a shift of an expression.

"I won't be," she responded softly, eyes the drawn to the swathed bundle, her son, a gift in the middle of a war, "Hey, Ned...?"

He stood up with a rustle of his cloak, and came to stoop beside her at the bed, baby mildly objecting to the sudden movement but keeping quiet and relaxed with sleep.

"What is it?" he asked quietly, hand daring to grip hers, so tight that normally it would have felt sore, only her body was more concentrated on the agonising infection speeding through her body. "Lyanna?"

"Promise me you'll look after him," she choked. Finally thick tears threatened the waterlines of her eyes, and despairingly she allowed herself to cry, not for herself but for her boy, "Promise me, Ned. Promise me..."

"Hush, Anna," Ned soothed, brushing his lips over the back of her hand. "I'll promise you anything. Anything. What is it?"

"Look after him," she said miserably, "Look after Jon. Take him back to Winterfell... Make sure he's looked after. Please... Promise me..."

No longer could she hold in the pain. Flashes of anguish came and went, and she let out weak cries, so pathetic and so heart-wrenching to hear from the strong girl that, as her brother fondly remembered, denied suitors loudly and threw violent tantrums when her way wasn't allowed.

He leant forward, "Of course I'll look after him, I promise you."

"No one will be happy with you for bringing a child back," Lyanna said rather wisely, still fighting against the vertigo shrouding her vision, "But Ned, you—you have to..."

She coughed, and suddenly there was so much more blood, not from her maidenhead but spurting out in short bursts out of her mouth with each word she spluttered out.

Ned was in strong denial of her dying. He clutched her hand again, and shook his head. "You'll get to raise him, Anna. Once this is finished with, I'll take you both back to Winterfell—"

"No," she interjected coldly, and she looked—sternly—straight at him.

Grey eyes like stone, dark hair, elongated features. Gods be damned if his sister wasn't the most beautiful maiden he'd ever seen.

Equally, she was the firmest. A side Robert was wholly oblivious to...

Lyanna's hand curled around his, but then suddenly she felt frosty, like life had rushed from her. Bitterer than the winds of Winterfell, colder than the snow they had played in gleefully as children, before responsibilities and wars and betrothals had cursed them.

"Promise me, Ned," she begged, and then her head slowly turned to the side, and her grip was limp.

With a garland of blue roses slack on her head, and the smell of blood more poignant than ever, she died.

Jon stirred in Ned's arms and began to wail like he knew what had happened, but Ned did not move.

Promise me, Ned. Promise me you'll look after him.

...

"Who is this, then?" Catelyn asked with a smile when her husband arrived with an infant in his arms, all wrapped up in fur and hide, although her expression would not last for long.

Ned grunted, and unwrapped the bundle a little. Ringlets of brown framed the babe's face and grey eyes met Catelyn's.

"He's my son," Ned said. Catelyn's face immediately fell, and anger replaced her core.

"A bastard," she whispered. "What are you doing, bringing him here?"

"I've acknowledged him as my son," he grunted again, moving past her, almost clinging to the baby that was starting to resemble Lyanna so goddamn much it hurt him.

"And this son," his wife frowned tightly, arms crossed and her chin held up in defiance, "What is the name of this prized, acknowledged, bastard son my husband expects me to raise?"

"I expect nothing of you," he replied instantly, rubbing the infant's back when it awoke and kicked up a fuss with the winter hitting tough, "I will raise him."

Promise me, Ned.

"His name is Jon. Jon Snow."