Ned would never remember what happened after they left the throne room, no matter how hard he tried to. He guessed someone must have stirred them towards the Tower of the Hand, must have told them that, as it was empty, it would be safer. He guessed Maege had joined them at some point because he remembered her and her men falling in step around them and filling the tower's steps to protect them. But he could never be sure.

What he did remember was the blood.

The smell of iron that caught in his throat, that invaded his lungs. The sound of his sister's cries as she twisted in Sir Arthur Dayne's arms due to labour pains. The tight grip of her hand as she held onto his, as she whispered, "Eddard." As if she couldn't believe that he was there, with her.

And he remembered her pleas and her apologies as she told him, between sobs and incoherent words, that she and the princess had smuggled Ashara out of King's Landing, bumbling about how she had been sick and they feared for the child.

It took all the strength he had in him to stay as focused as possible, to breathe more easily knowing—wishing—Ashara would be safe at Starfall, far away from the war, and from him.

They laid Lyanna on the bed on the Hand's bedchamber.

And there was so much blood. How could there be so much blood?

"Lya," Ned called to her. "Lyanna. You are going to be alright."

His sister didn't answer, but Maege Mormont bellowed, her voice laced with panic "The child is coming."

She placed her hands on Lyanna's swollen belly; moved them on way and then the other, but Ned didn't dare ask what she was doing. Didn't dare inquire about the baby.

He couldn't think, couldn't see anything besides the fact that he was losing Lya.

"Is the child alright?" Lyanna's voice was weak, broken, but her face seemed to regain some of its colour when Maege nodded.

"It won't be long now."

When Lyanna turned to him, Eddard felt like a child again. Like a young boy waiting for his father's approval. Unsure and afraid. But then her smile was gone, and she was screaming once more, holding his hand in a vicious grip that threatened to break his fingers. And he would have let her. Anything to see her suffering end.

"Oberyn," she whispered when her breathing evened again.

When Ned had seen his sister's husband last, he had been cutting his way through the city, Larra Blackmont and Delonne Allyrion at his side. He was about to tell her as much, and to reassure her he would be with her soon, if only to sooth her worry, when he noticed Lyanna was not looking at him.

But at Sir Arthur, who remained by the door, his sword—Dawn—still drawn.

"He can't find them like that," she whispered. "You have to find him. Bring him here. Don't let him—" She didn't finish, though Eddard didn't know if it was due to the pain, not as she closed her eyes and laid back against the pillows. "I'm dying."

Maege groaned at her, "No."

Ned couldn't find the words to agree with the Lady of Bear Island, not as his sister kept bleeding. Not when he didn't know if it was the coming of the child that made her bleed, or if it meant something inside of her was wounded, broken.

But Lyanna had her tired, teary eyes on the white knight again.

"Find him. You are the only one who can explain…"

"Is that a command, Your Grace?" the knight's voice was still, cold, controlled.

A crooked, bitter smile broke its way across Lyanna's face.

"It is not for me to command you, Arthur."

Eddard chanced a look at Ser Arthur, who remained by the door a moment longer, his face grim and his white armour covered in blood. As were his hands, the Lord of Winterfell noted, for he had carried Lyanna all the way down Maegor's Holdfast and to him.

"You won't die," the knight offered, determined, his eyes searching Lyanna's face, and then left the room.

Lyanna cried out again, weeping as Eddard held her in his arms.

The city was utter chaos.

It should have been easy to gallop through the filthy streets and into the Red Keep, seeing as houses had barred their doors and people had fled from the streets. It would have been easy, if only the Lannister army hadn't stayed in the city instead of riding for the Keep. If only they hadn't turned their swords and hunger on the people.

He had been parted from Eddard when a bunch of soldiers had drawn their swords and attacked him, laughing, as if this was a game and not war, and spitting insults about "dornish filth". Larra and him had cut through those well enough, but soon others had joined, recognising the Viper of Dorne and thinking they might become legends for claiming his head.

If Oberyn hadn't already been enraged enough, their vicious insinuations about his wife would have been enough to set him on edge. Some of the soldiers were green summer kids, not older than Lyanna herself—he still cut through them as easily as he might have peeled a blood orange.

By the time they reached the Red Keep, his armour was darkened with blood, his spear dripping wet with it.

The halls reeked of blood too, as if it had licked at the walls and stayed there. It was hard to imagine the stench would ever go away.

"We'll secure the halls and the exits," Larra said.

But as they ascended the steps of Maegor's Holdfast, Oberyn knew her mind was forming the same thought as his. For all the chaos on the city, for all the mayhem in the streets, these halls were quiet—to quiet. And there were only dead bodies at their feet.

Many of them wore Targaryen colours—soldiers who had been slayed trying to protect the royal family and the nobles, if not fighting for their own lives. Others were Lannister soldiers. But most of them were servant boys and maids who had nothing to do with the High Houses, whose only crime had been to try and flee an overran castle.

When they reached the door to the room he had shared with Lyanna and found it closed shut, a cold fear overtook him, and even as he and his men endeavoured in breaking it open, Oberyn readied himself for what he would find inside.

He had not been ready to find nothing but two murdered men.

"Where is she?" he muttered. Where is Ned?

"Why are they not in armour? It's as if—" Larra didn't get to finish the sentence, she just looked up at him, horror written all over her face for the first time since they'd know each other. "I think they climbed the wall."

She had started explaining how and why when Oberyn ran out of the room.

If Lyanna wasn't there, then she might be with Elia, but even if that wasn't so, even if, maybe, somehow, the Lord of Winterfell had gotten to her first, hired killers didn't climb walls just to be butchered. Or just for the wife of the Princess' brother. Not when the heir to the Iron Throne was so close.

He may have run or may have flown down the stairs to the nursery, he wouldn't know. Elia, he wanted to call, but fear stopped him. He would have laughed at himself then, for behaving like a child, for fearing ghosts, when he knew that both his sister and wife would be perfectly safe. Even if Sir Lewyn had fallen in the green banks of the Trident, Oberyn knew he could trust Sir Arthur Dayne to keep them safe, even if he had little faith in everyone else.

All his years should have taught him faith was nothing but ash.

The sight before him could not be real—it wasn't. He would give his life for it not to be. And yet, when he approached the bloody mess on the cold floor, when he knelt before it, there was no denying in his mind what he was seeing.

This is not my sister. This can't be my sister.

"Elia," he uttered at last. "Elia," he said again, louder this time, as if she would answer. The third time he called her, Oberyn's voice shattered.

The last time he'd cried as he now did had been when their mother had died, but even then, the pain inside his chest had been something he had understood. It had been the pain of loss, of a life gone too suddenly, but it had still been something to expect. The Princess of Dorne had been sick for a time, before finally succumbing to the illness.

This was nothing like that.

"Elia!" He called again, though he could barely see her now, tears blinding him. "Big sister."

She was supposed to grow old with him, to be at his side to tell him that he was an oaf, that there was no hope for him, and to smile while she did so, for they both knew that no matter his deeds, she would always love him. As he'd always love her.

It was then that he saw the buddle of gore next to the wall, and his insides twisted.

What did they do to you?

Steps sounded behind him, and Oberyn didn't stop to think. Spear in hand, he raised and turned, ready to impale whomever was coming.

"Oberyn."

The Prince stared at the Sword in the Morning as if he had never seen him before. Shocked, at first, and then taking him in—seeing the mess of blood that he was.

"What happened?" He demanded. "Where were you?"

Arthur Dayne seemed to steady himself at that, as if getting ready to be attacked.

"The Princess sent me to protect her sister."

A moment passed between them as Oberyn understood what he meant. Then, "Where is she? Where is my wife?"

In truth, he didn't want his friend to answer him. He feared the answer now, his blood boiling with mad rage towards Tywin Lannister and his men. He would find and question every single one of his damned knights and soldiers if need be to find out who had done this. He would swear a bloody war with the West if need he had to.

"She sent me for you."

Oberyn wasn't sure his heart was beating any longer. Lyanna is alive. That meant he still had a chance to redeem himself. Let me take her home, he begged, though he wasn't sure which gods he addressed, let me see her safe to Sunspear. Take me, if you must, but don't take her away. He could not bear it.

Lost in his thoughts, in the beating of his heart against his ribcage, in his grief, he almost missed Arthur's next words.

"You left her with child, Oberyn. She's in childbirth, Eddard Stark at her side."

With child? She was carrying their child and he had left her, he had not seen the threat that was Rhaegar Targaryen until it was too late. Worse—he had not come sooner. He should have. For Lyanna and for Elia and for the children. He should have broken down the walls of the city with his hands.

He should have been more, for them. He hadn't been.

"Take me to her."

Being a woman, was bloody stuff, Old Nan had always told her—granted Lyanna had been too young to understand what she meant. Blood covered them at birth, blood marked their turning from girl to woman, and blood would bring forth their offspring. Sometimes, that blood of life would become their death too.

Lyarra Stark had died of childbirth fever not long after bringing Benjen into the world, but Lyanna had never thought she would end up like her mother. It had never occurred to her, that maybe she would have to give up her life to bring forth her child too.

If the scorching heat and excruciating pain she felt were any indication, she was certain she would never get up from this bed, never walk out of this room.

Howland Reed had joined Maege in the task of helping her deliver the child, but she was barely aware of their presence, even as they instructed her in how to breathe and when to push and what to do. All she knew was that there was still warm blood running down her thighs, as if something had ripped apart inside of her and demanded attention.

It must be my heart, she thought.

"She is too warm." Ned kissed her forehead again, and Lyanna held onto his hand.

If she let go of it she feared she may not find it again.

"The child is almost here." She wasn't sure who was speaking. "You need to breathe, Lya."

"You are doing fine," her brother whispered against their joint hands. "Just another push, Lya. You are alright, you'll be fine."

She was dying, she knew it, she had told him—told them—as much, why wouldn't they believe her? Why wouldn't they let her? She would have left sooner if it hadn't been for her baby.

When the child finally came, Lyanna had no strength left in her to scream. But she did weep, as she heard him cry. As her friend wrapped the baby in a towel and handed it to her.

If it hadn't been for Ned's help she wouldn't have been able to held him.

"He's beautiful. He's…" She trailed a finger down his round cheek as he nuzzled against her. "He looks like his father."

And he did. Her boy had Oberyn's dark curls and olive skin that reminded her of little Nymeria.

Beside her, she barely saw Ned shake his head.

"He looks like you."

"Jon," she whispered. As if knowing he had been called, Jon stirred against her touch. It was a foolish thought, to believe he could understand her, and yet it filled her with joy. "Take him, I don't—I'm not strong enough."

Ned took her boy in his arms, holding him as if he as brittle as glass, but there was a smile on his face now. Lyanna wondered, for a brief moment, if he thought of Ashara, and of their child, who would have been born by now, sheltered in Starfall.

"Promise me you will get Jon to Oberyn." She tightened her grip on him when her brother started shaking his head. She didn't have it in her to fight with him on this. "Promise me, you will see him safe to Sunspear, then you will take me home."

"Lya, don't—"

"Bran and Father are waiting." Could he not understand? "I can't make them wait any longer, I can't…Promise me, Ned."

Doubt flashed across his face. "I promise, Lya," he said at last. "I promise."

Lyanna smiled back, her free hand moving to touch her son again. One last time.

Eddard was saying something, but Lyanna could no longer hear him. After a moment she realized she couldn't see him, either, or her son, and suddenly she felt weightless. In the distance, she could have sworn, someone screamed her name. There was such desperation in it that she made herself try to wait, try to open her eyes. But she couldn't.

And her family was waiting.

Lyanna couldn't recall the last time the sun had warmed Winterfell as it now did, or the last time she had been allowed to forsake her daily duties to play with Benjen. Laughing, she turned around; reaching for him, but her little brother was nowhere to be seen.

The whole courtyard had emptied, and she frowned.

"Lyanna."

Smiling again now, she followed that voice; held up the skirts of her dress, so as not to trip with them, and ran towards it. Ran for what it seemed an age until she reached the glass gardens.

It was Brandon, not Benjen, who greeted her with a heart-warming smile when she entered.

"What are you doing here?" He stood, closing the distance between them, and holding her tightly in his arms when she embraced him.

"What do you mean? I'm home."

Brandon's grey eyes seemed to search her face, pain overtaking his features, before he raised a hand to caress her cheek.

"You can't stay, my love. You have to go back."

Lyanna shook her head. "I don't understand."

"Lya." This time it wasn't Brandon calling.

She turned, to see if anyone else had walked into the glass-garden, to tell whomever it was to leave her alone. When she found no one and moved towards her big brother again, he was gone.

"Lyanna."

Somewhere, in the distance, she could hear a child crying. Unconsciously, her hands went to her stomach, and she knew at once that something was wrong.

She had been with child, hadn't she?

"Jon," a voice whispered. "He needs you."

And then she remembered. The Keep, the room, her father, Brandon, and the Mad King's laughter. Elia.

"Lyanna, please."

She couldn't be home, couldn't be at Winterfell. She remembered now, holding her child in her arms. She remembered begging Ned to take care of him.

"Wake up," she said, a command to herself. "Wake up."

"You have to go back," she heard Brandon say again.

"Wake up."

Eddard had taken Jon to the wet nurse, humming softly at him as he walked out of the room, and as much as he missed the weight of his son in his arms, Oberyn thanked him. There was a silent agreement between them now, to not speak of how exhausted they both were, how sleepless nights were starting to take their toll.

Oberyn had refused to leave his wife's side, at first, just like he had refused to hand Jon over once Eddard had handed the child to him. But, as the days had gone by, he had had to relent and allow Lyanna's brother to share the burden, if only because the Lord of Winterfell looked as if the Stranger had claimed his soul and left an empty husk behind.

Being with his nephew brought a light to his eyes that the sight of his sister took away.

Alone with her now, Oberyn pushed Lyanna's face away from her face, relieved to find that her skin didn't burn any longer. It had taken days for the fever to break, and even then, when she hadn't woken up, no one had been sure if that was a good sign, or just the last steps before she left them for good. She was still so pale, so fragile.

Sighing, he took her hand in his and kissed her knuckles.

They hadn't been able to move her, after the birth, and the newly appointed Hand of the newly crowned King, had been gracious enough as to allow them to care for Lyanna in the chambers of the Hand, while taking another chamber in the tower as his, for the time being. The so called King himself hadn't stepped into the room to visit her, never mind how deeply he swore to love her, and Oberyn wouldn't have wanted him anyway. There was little he could do to contain his rage as of late and he might have murdered the man if given the chance, if only for the part he had played in allowing Tywin Lannister to get away with his crimes.

He was glad to, at least, have Ned's support on that matter. He knew that Eddard and Robert had met in private, that the Lord of Winterfell had confronted him about what had been done to Elia, Rhaenys and Aegon; about what had almost been done to Lyanna, but Eddard had not told him what had been said between them. Whatever it had been, it was obvious to everyone at court that something had broken between the two, and for what he had seen of Eddard, Oberyn was not sure it was something that could ever be mended.

He could not say he was sadden by it.

A sob startled him and froze him in place at the same time, but when he looked at his wife, she was as she had been a moment ago; an unmoving shadow of the woman he knew.

For a moment, Oberyn thought the lack of sleep was making him imagine things, but then Lyanna squished his hand, ever so slightly.

"Lyanna," he called, as he had called her a thousand times before.

She sobbed again, as if crying in her never-ending sleep.

"I'm here. I'm not going anywhere, you have nothing to fear."

She was still crying, tears running down her cheeks.

When Oberyn raised his free hand to wipe them away, Lyanna opened her eyes.