The child was born screaming—not with fear, but with fury.
Lyanna Stark's cry echoed against the pale stone walls of the Tower of Joy as dawn bled slowly over the Red Mountains. Outside, the wind carried the smell of dust and blood, and the promise that something old had ended… and something far older had begun.
Eddard Stark reached the tower steps with his sword already dripping.
The Kingsguard should have been dead. Yet steel still rang.
Ser Arthur Dayne moved like the dawn he was named for—bright, precise, merciless. Dawn cut through Ned's companions as if they were little more than shadows, each strike clean, final. Oswell Whent fought beside him, laughing softly beneath his helm, baiting, drawing men out of position so Arthur could end them.
It was not a slaughter. It was an execution.
When the last of Ned's men fell, the yard was silent save for Ned's breathing, Lord Reed's shuddering and the distant cry from within the tower.
Arthur Dayne lowered his blade.
"It's finished," he said—not as a threat, but as a statement.
Ned raised his sword with shaking hands. "Let me pass, What is happening with my sister? "
Oswell Whent tilted his head and said "lord Stark she-
The scream inside the tower reached terrifying height and finally broke into a wet, exhausted sob along with a cry of newborn babe.
All the four remaining froze then looked at each other as Ser Orwell sheathed the steel. Ned stark looked up then threw the sword in disgust as if spiting the gods.
Arthur turned first, others followed.
The room smelled of blood and sweat and crushed roses.
Lyanna lay against the pillows, her skin pale as frost, dark hair plastered to her temples. Her eyes found Ned immediately, and for a heartbeat, she smiled—soft, relieved, victorious and utterly exhausted.
Then she looked down.
The child in her arms did not cry anymore.
He stared.
His hair was silver, pale and fine, catching the torchlight like moonlit steel. His eyes—purple. Not the deep royal shade of old Valyria, but something brighter, sharper, as if the fire behind them had not yet learned restraint.
Ned felt the world tilt.
"No," he whispered. "Lyanna…"
He closed his eyes and sighed. After gathering his thoughts he opened his eyes brimming with determination " I will raise-
"No"
She tightened her grip on the child, strength flaring for one last stand. "Listen to me. You cannot take him north with you. Not with that hair. Not with those eyes."
Robert's laughter echoed in Ned's memory. Robert's hatred.
"They will kill him," Lyanna said. "Promise me."
Arthur Dayne knelt at the bedside.
"The boy is Rhaegar's," he said quietly. "And more than Rhaegar ever was."
Oswell Whent leaned against the wall, watching the child as one might watch a drawn blade. "He's too aware. Gods help us."
The baby's fingers closed around Lyanna's thumb. The torch flames flickered , bending inward, as if pulled by an unseen breath.
Howland Reed entered without sound.
"The old gods have been restless," he said. "The trees whispered all night."
Lyanna's gaze locked on Ned. "His name is Aemon. Aemon Targaryen."
Her voice faded, but her eyes did not leave her brother's face.
"Promise me."
Ned dropped to his knees. "I swear it. By the old gods and the new."
She smiled—and took her last breath.
The child did not cry.
Arthur Dayne bowed his head. Not to a king. Not to a prince.
But to a storm yet unborn.
After a fierce discussion it was decided that the child will be raised in Graywater watch accompanied by both the kingsguard.
————————————————————-
They burned nothing.
No tower fell. No bodies were displayed.
The world would be told the Kingsguard died that day, loyal to the end.
They did not.
Greywater Watch swallowed the truth.