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Lyanna was done with life.
Though she thought even if she wanted to cling onto the remaining embers of her life, it wouldn’t be possible because of the babe within her and the fever taking her soul away.
She’d spent too many moons alone, even with these Kingsguard and midwives, and had much time to bemoan her actions and feel regret for being a—foolish little girl following a foolish little girl’s dreams—girl taken by false hope and trapped in a tower.
Just like all the girls in southron tales that she once sneered at for being unable to help themselves. She knew better now, she knew that girls like that were some of the strongest in the realm.
To face danger and depraved men with only your wits, charm, and beauty was a hard thing to face and Lyanna knew that she wished she never had to experience this.
The worst part is that she did this to herself, in some way.
She knew she was young and ought not to be blamed for falling to the Prince’s words, but shame crept up within her all the same, embedding itself into her insides and twisting through both her body and soul.
At this point, nearly ready to pop with the large lump of her frame that had no right being on such a small child-like figure, she had no self-hatred left inside to utter.
All she had left was pain. And hope.
Hope for her child to live where she likely did not.
She held firmly to that hope, to the survival of her child—regardless of who else’s blood he carried.
The Prince grew sour upon the arrival of Gerold Hightower, but glimpses of his madness were seen by Lyanna in many short moments before this.
With the announcement of the Mad King’s actions—her father and Brandon gone!!—Rhaegar grew cold. He wasn’t harsh with her, not with his fists, but his words grew nonsensical and angering, making Lyanna realise he was just as much of a mad man as his father was.
She heard whispers of whispers, passing along through Dorne and reaching Wylla after a local tradesman’s daughter spoke the news to her…of the death of Elia Martell. Lyanna felt foolish for never passing any thought to her.
How could she? When Rhaegar was every maiden’s dream and his words overtook her mind?
She was too focused on the flowery words of true love and destiny that Rhaegar preached to ever give a thought for his wife and children, too focused on the joy that was to come, only to see in the dreaded Tower of Joy that there was no good tidings to come for her—just pain.
All alone, surrounded by some of the most respected men, as they watched her linger in pain and want—wanting to escape her entrapment and stop the thousands of deaths enacted in her name. Men declared the best, not only in all the Realms, but of all time, yet they were the ones who went along with Rhaegar’s foolish whims and Lyanna’s—but it was never truly Lyanna’s, was it?
She just listened to Rhaegar’s soft words and fell for him like the naive little girl she was.
She was no vicious wolf-woman warrior as she dreamed to become, but rather was the epitome of all she derided. Just another wilting flower following the whims of men, as the southron tales loved making women appear to be.
Lyanna’s heart grew weak when she heard of her father and brother’s death. It was then that she knew whatever she felt for Rhaegar was not love—for what she felt for Bran and her father was far stronger and all-encompassing her body and soul.
All she could do was spend moons upon moons wishing death upon Rhaegar, herself, the Kingsguard, cycling through who to blame as often as the sun rose.
Ultimately, Lyanna knew she was nearing her end and had no strength to hate herself or the others who aided in the fate that befell her.
Wylla was beside her, wiping away the sweat upon her forehead, a sweet smile on her face.
She was well and truly one of the only people Lyanna had grown to respect in her time in the awful tower Rhaegar sequestered her within.
A local maid from Starfall who had fallen pregnant by a crofter’s son taken in by the Dayne household and ‘gifted’ to Lyanna upon the words of Arthur Dayne, who had heard of sweet Wylla’s fate through his sister Ashara who was to use her as her own nursemaid—until Lady Ashara’s own babe was lost.
She was likely only a few moons older than Lyanna but felt much like an older sister—or a mother, not that Lyanna knew what it was like to have one, though the same could be said for a sister. Wylla was a calming presence to Lyanna’s bouts of sadness and anger. She’d help Lyanna; stop her from going insane in this tower and damn near scratching her eyes out from pure frustration.
It was only then when pain hit Lyanna and Wylla’s eyes twisted with a distinctly unique look that made Lyanna realise what was to come. It was her time.
It was his time.
Her precious boy was to come alive. Despite the circumstances of his unwelcome arrival, she was overjoyed at the notion of his existence and was certain the babe would be a boy, putting to rest Rhaegar’s nonsensical wishes that doomed her and the thousands of people who died for the war that struck the realm partly in her name.
But if Lyanna never ran off with Rhaegar, then his mad father wouldn’t have killed her father and brother and kickstarted the war with declaration for Robert and Ned’s heads?
At least, that’s what Lyanna thought, but there was no more energy within herself for self-hatred and she knew Aerys’ madness knew no bounds and likely would’ve been put down in rebellion anyway. She couldn’t let her hatred fester, not when so many others were at fault and should’ve known better.
Rhaegar caught her at the perfect—or imperfect time. With her just a year out from sneering at kissing boys and all things romance, but years away from maturing in the mind to know hidden love was no true love at all.
And now here she was with a babe in her belly ready to leave her, a war across the lands, and a father and brother lost to the world.
She screamed out and Wylla twitched at her roar, kneeling down to whisper small comforts as Lyanna held firmly onto her arm.
Soon after Lyanna’s first shout, she quickly realised she was not the only one screaming. There were loud guttural sounds—a man’s voice, many men—screaming loud enough to overtake Lyanna’s moans of pain.
“Wylla—who, who is that?” she cried out, panting as a bout of pain hit her. They were sharp stabs and came in moments, going for a time before hitting Lyanna hard.
“Don’t worry, dear girl, I’m sure it’s nothing,” Wylla replied, “Just focus on your babe, okay?”
Lyanna was too tired to fight her on what she was certain to be a lie and so she ignored the screams and heeded Wylla’s words.
She didn’t want to die. Lyanna knew deep within her heart than upon the birth of her child, she was unlikely to survive—whether by childbirth or death as a casualty of war—but she didn’t expect it to happen so soon.
Lyanna resigned herself to the fate of death… but still, she wanted to reunite with Ned and Benjen—at least before she was forced to leave the mortal soil and reunite with Brandon and their father.
“For Winterfell!”
“For Lady Lyanna!”
As soon as those cries pierced her ears, Lyanna knew what was occurring .
Her Ned—kind, sweet, solemn Ned was here to save her.
Oh how she wondered what he’d say if he knew that the maiden trapped by a dragon went into his arms willingly.
She prayed he wouldn’t hate her—that he’d see her regret and understand that Lyanna didn’t want it to be like this. She hadn’t wanted anything of this in truth—she just let herself be swayed by Rhaegar, finding his attention and tales of prophecy being fate freeing her from the burden of being Robert’s wife.
“Wylla—!” The pain came back.
“It’ll be alright, Lyanna,” she said, yet the look donned on her face proved otherwise. “Keep breathing, you’ll get through this.”
It felt as if hours had passed with how long birthing her child was taking and Lyanna grew weaker with every moment.
Her face was pale, the life visibly draining from her skin as she put all her force into pushing.
She could barely hear the swords of steel hitting steel and screams of pain from the men outside as her sole focus was on pushing her babe out with all her might.
Lyanna felt faint but it was clear to her that it was all over as she heard a soft cry. The sound was nothing like she’d ever heard but she knew she loved it immediately.
The cries continued, even as Wylla cleaned the babe up and moved forward for Lyanna to gaze her sigh at her child.
“You have a baby boy, mi’lady,” she said to Lyanna, a smile resting on her face.
“A boy, just like I thought,” Lyanna looked to the babe bundled in a blanket, grinning at him despite the growing pain piercing her chest.
He was perfect.
Wholly hers, with Stark brown hair and Stark grey eyes.
She’d never felt this much love for anyone before.
“I love him already—what, what was that?” Lyanna cried, for she began to hear loud screams and clanging metal, before silence broke out.
“It’ll all be well, but I ought to look out for you and the babe’s sake,” Wylla stepped away, closing the door behind her and sauntered wearily down the spiralling stairs of the tower.
Behind the closed door, Lyanna heard murmurs of Wylla’s voice and another sound—a deeper voice.
It opened and with it came Wylla.
“Lady Lyanna, there’s someone here who wants to see you—”
She was interrupted by the rough shove of another, a man much taller than the nursemaid, rushing over towards Lyanna’s laying body.
“Lyanna—!” The man shouted and she immediately recognised his accent.
Ned.
She hoped he had come for her, but seeing him in the flesh was another experience altogether.
Her time living was soon to leave and yet she was overjoyed, for her brother had come at the perfect time—right as she was still alive to see him.
“Ned!” She tried to scream but her voice was but a fading sound as she hadn’t enough energy to speak loud.
“Gods, Lyanna I’ve missed you so much,” He knelt down to Lyanna’s side, tears pouring down his typically-solemn face.
Lyanna couldn’t contain her joy at seeing him, even with little energy. “Ned, I missed you. I—I’m sorry for this.” She cried like the little girl she was.
“You have nothing to be sorry for,” he told her as Wylla stepped closer.
“Mi’lord said he was your brother and had the same look as you but I wasn’t too sure, now I am so glad to see he truly was,” Wylla said as she walked away from the door to the cradle nearer to Lyanna. “Lord Stark, would you like to see your nephew?”
“Nephew?” His face froze.
“Ned, my babe, you should see him,” Lyanna pleaded, staring at him in the eyes. “I—I’m not long for this world and he needs you as much as I do.”
Tears sprouted out of his eyes yet again, “I would love to.”
Wylla took the babe out of the cradle and passed him over to Ned.
“What’s his name?”
Lyanna couldn’t answer Ned.
She didn’t know what to call him.
In her heart, she wanted to honour her father and brother, calling the child Rickard or Brandon, but it felt wrong.
It felt too soon to replace them, especially when her child had the blood on the one who murdered them. She didn’t want to shame them with that—even if a part of her knew Brandon and her father would be joyous at the idea of Lyanna naming her son after them, regardless of the circumstance of his birth and who his sire was.
“I—I can’t name him,” she said, “He won’t ever be mine.”
“Lyanna?”
“I can’t survive. It even hurts me to speak, Ned.” Lyanna continued, gripping onto Ned’s arm firmly, with the little strength she had left. “Protect him, Ned. Claim him. Please.”
“In my absence, let him be yours. Love him where I cannot.” She continued, eyes wide, fervently declaring her wishes. “Promise me, Ned.”
Lyanna’s eyes were filled with both fear and hope. Fear that neither Ned or her son would live and hope that they would. That all could be well and she could die knowing her son was safe.
“I promise, Lyanna,” Ned stated. “You have my word. He’ll be mine and I’ll protect him ‘til my dying breath.”
The fear left Lyanna with his words and her hand’s grip relaxed.
She smiled and held his hand softly, fingers deftly touching.
“Promise me, Ned,” she said with a strong finality in her words.
The light faded from her eyes as she stopped clinging onto her life.
Lyanna’s son was safe.
She could rest now.
She was free.