Tower of Joy, Dorne - 283 AL
Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North.
His brother and father burned beyond recognition.
The men of the North, death by his command.
A city, sacked by the Lion.
Two innocent childrens, killed for the game of thrones.
He never asked for any of this.
And in the end, it was all for naught.
“I looked for you on the Trident,” Ned said to them.
“We were not there,” Ser Gerold answered.
“Woe to the Usurper if we had been,” said Ser Oswell.
“When King's Landing fell, Ser Jaime slew your king with a golden sword, and I wondered where you were.”
“Far away,” Ser Gerold said, “or Aerys would yet sit the Iron Throne, and our false brother would burn in seven hells.”
“I came down on Storm's End to lift the siege,” Ned told them, and the Lords Tyrell and Redwyne dipped their banners, and all their knights bent the knee to pledge us fealty. I was certain you would be among them.”
“Our knees do not bend easily,” said Ser Arthur Dayne.
“Ser Willem Darry is fled to Dragonstone, with your queen and Prince Viserys. I thought you might have sailed with him.”
“Ser Willem is a good man and true,” said Ser Oswell.
“But not of the Kingsguard,” Ser Gerold pointed out. “The Kingsguard does not flee.”
“Then or now,” said Ser Arthur. He donned his helm.
“We swore a vow,” explained old Ser Gerold.
Ned’s wraiths moved up beside him, with shadow swords in hand. They were seven against three.
“And now it begins,” said Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning. He unsheathed Dawn and held it with both hands. The blade was pale as milkglass, alive with light.
“No,” Ned said with sadness in his voice. “Now it ends.”
Three of the deadliest knight in the realms. Their white cloak strained with the red from their blood and the blood of five of his companions. Only Howland Reed yet remain and it was only through him that he survives this deadly combat.
It was all for nothing.
Here she is in front of him, yet he knew time is short.
Lyanna that he knew was headstrong, willful, courageous and hot-tempered. “The She-Wolf” is what Brandon used to call her. Yet, here she lies in bed of blood within the grasp of dead. She gives him a weak smile when he approached. The same smile that he remembered from Harrenhal, but there was a tinge of sadness in the look that she is giving him. A fever had taken her strength. Her voice had been faint as a whisper. There was fear in her eyes, while she called for him. Her "Ned”.
He slowly walks in, but not before he notices something in her arm.
A small bundle wrap in a white clothes
The boy appearance:
[ ] He has dark brown hair and grey eyes so dark they border on black. A typical Stark look.
[ ] He has silver-gold hair and violet-purple eyes. A typical Targaryen look.
[ ] Write-In (Specify)
He knelt next to her bed and softly stroke her hair. His little sister.
She speaks softly as it there is no more strength in her. “He is my son, Ned”
“Me and Rheagar” she rasps out the word.
Eddard take a deep breath “It is okay, Lya. I am here to take you home.”
She sighs softly. “I know I do not have much left. I can feel the strength leaving me and I do not have much time.”
“But I am scared for him, Ned. I am scared for him. He will be alone in this world.”
“But you can fix that. Promise me, Ned. Promise me that you will raise him and take good care of him. He is of your blood as much as I am”
GM NOTE: I blame the holiday.