"Go along now," Lyanna insisted, pushing her young niece towards an irate looking Septa Mordane. "Do your best by the good septa and I am certain you will find yourself much rewarded." She offered a gentle smile, pushing back an errant strand of hair. It could not be helped that the poor child loathed the sight of embroidery needles, she supposed; even so, she'd best grow used to seeing to her duties, even those as boring as embroidering.

Her son tried to intervene but she shushed him with a sharp look. "Your cousin undoubtedly wishes to be on her way without delay." Thank heavens the older sister was not half as stubborn as the other one. At least Ned had managed to get the rest of his household out of her way.

Lyanna knew her demands struck him as odd. But then, she was doing no more and no less than protecting her child's interests. She turned towards Arya yet again and widened her smile. With a brief pause she leaned in to whisper conspiratorially, "I shall convince your lady mother of the importance wielding something other than a needle carries."

Mood somewhat brightened, the young girl trudged towards the septa awaiting her and was led away without further fuss. Lyanna remained in the company of her son and brother, one of whom crossed his arms over his chest, while the other shook his head with something akin to affection.

Benjen gave her a mocking bow nevertheless, for all the love he bore her, before straightening himself and speaking, "I expect I too shall be snet on my merry way with as much deftness as my young niece. Alas, sister dearest, I've other plans." Thus before she might protest or defend herself in any manner, her rapscallion of a sibling took off.

"Should we not await Ser Jaime?" her firstborn ventured, eyeing the entrance to the crypts with mistrust. "Father said he was to accompany us."

"Should we travel. But I hardly see walking to the crypts as travelling." She nodded her head for emphasis and took Jon's hand with a practiced touch, feeling the calluses and unevenness of his skin, testimony to the many hours of practice with swords and lances. It was with loving adoration that she traced the pattern and with discerning eyes that she took in his reaction. For that reason Lyanna knew, inn her heart of hearts that she had come to the correct decision.

She had waited long enough.

"Mother, be reasonable. The steps are narrow and unreliable. And you, might I point out, are not in any condition to be exerting yourself." His lips thinned in a bloodless line as his eyes narrowed to slits, their cut sharp. "Whatever it is you wish to show me, I am certain it'll keep."

At times she wondered at the implacable stubbornness coursing through his veins. Stubborn as a mule, the boy was. But Lyanna had handled recalcitrant dragons as well as she did ornery ones. And Jon, no matter how unshakable he was to the world, remained her son and thus much at her mercy.

"I shan't argue with you, dear boy. You are coming with me to the crypts and that is it." Without further exchanges forthcoming, she started towards the cavernous space, a spark of something igniting in her chest as she clapped eyes upon the direwolf pup Robb Stark had insisted be given to Jon as a belated nameday gift. "You may bring Ghost along, if you wish."

"Your generosity humbles me," the boy lashed out, picking up his pet gingerly.

How fitting it was that her son clamber down those stairs with a direwolf in his arms. Its stone siblings were like to be pleased. She knew she was. Jon was no Stark, except might be in looks, but even so the old lord of the frozen realm had kept for him a very special gift. One that she herself had kept silent about, hoping that when the moment was right, she would give it to him.

Despite his unwillingness to join her, she was not at all surprised to feel his hand upon her shoulder as he stepped before her, taking the torch from the servant who hurriedly brought it and placing the direwolf in her arms. Rhaegar would likely heap praise upon the boy for his actions.

"If we must dust off the crypts then at least allow me to step before you, lady mother." No matter, they would be returning to King's Landing soon enough. Her husband's tone in his last letter had made it clear that she remained in Winterfell by the grace of her delicate condition. Just as soon as she was delivered of the child, she would be readied for her journey back.

Such was the power of a husband, she told herself, pushing past the bitterness of their parting. They had exchanged words spoken in anger and she still maintained she had been well within her right to make for her kin's home in such circumstances. But even she could see that hiding away was not a solution. She had known the manner of man she was taking up with the moment she chose to go with him. If she'd expected him to change, the by the gods, was she an even greater fool than he was with his belief that she'd been love-struck enough to run off with him.

Then again, Lyanna had sealed her fate long before catching sight of silver-haired princes and their harps. Catching Jon's sleeve, she followed him obediently down the steps, keeping herself as close to his back as her girth allowed. "Have a care, there is a broken step there."

"Aye, mother. I am perfectly capable of seeing that." The small pup she held close to her chest pawed at the mother of pearl beads strewn along her collar. His sharp claws scratched roughly over her skin. Might be he did not enjoy being surrounded by the dead.

She'd had a lifetime of exploring these parts, playing with Benjen in the dark. Sometimes she came by herself, with only a torch and some small candle stubs. It was the collapsed last floor that held her attention for the longest time. She knew all the kings and lords and their kin buried between pillars.

Jon paused, having brought her to her own father's resting place. She touched a finger to the edge of his final resting place. "Good morrow, lord father. It is long since I have come to you. I have brought Jon as well."

Jon was the only child of hers her father ever saw. At times she wished the gods had granted him more days, enough so that he might come to know the other as well. Yet the gods had not allowed her the joy. She glanced towards her son; he had his head bowed, glancing at naught in particular, naught that she might name.

She put Ghost down, allowing the pup to run about and sniff at the various statues. Curiously enough when Jon called to him, the beast ambled to him, meek as a lamb. "We shan't linger. Come. What I wish to show you lies deeper than you'd think.

Obediently, her son placed himself before her, carrying the torch. Ghost came at his heel, keeping pace with his long-limbed pace better than she and her full form could. "And where exactly do you wish to take us?" he questioned, allowing her to lean against him as exhaustion began to creep up upon her. She was either as young as she'd been a two decades past, nor as spry as she was as little as half a decade past.

The scent became heavy with moisture and stagnation the deeper they sank into the bowls of the earth. She placed a hand upon her lips, taking in the scent of rose-oil. It was nowhere near enough for her breathing to be an easy thing and she wondered how Jon coped, but they progressed further and further in, a plume of smoke the only sign of their passing.

She felt Ghost brush against her ankle and heard a short intake of breath coming from the only other soul in her company. Gazing over his shoulder, Lyanna realised the damage to the last of the crypt's floors was even more extensive than she had imagined. One of the pillars holding the roof has collapsed to the side, the runic engravings carved deep within the stone worn and faded. Its twin remained proudly unbowed.

She broke away from Jon and stepped towards the still standing pillar. "The first Starks believed that runes were enchanted. 'Tis said these are spells that bind the souls of the forefathers in service of the living." She traced the form of an unknown rune, staring at the fish-like shape as though it might reveal some hidden meaning to her. "Benjen never wanted to come this far down into the crypts."

"Wise fellow, that uncle of mine." She chuckled at the vehement agreement. "It would be unwise to venture further in. The roof could cave in."

"It shan't. Now, come closer." He did as she bade, bringing the flame with him. "Does this not look as though a fish is swimming upstream?" she asked of the boy. But his answer did not interest her. "The Starks of old burned their dead for a time, did you know? I read of such rituals when last we visited the Wall. Master Aemon, do you remember him, was kind enough to allow me the boon. There are so many books hidden in the dusty library at the Wall. I don't doubt your father would have taken all of them with him if he could."

"Fascinating as this impromptu lesson is, lady mother, I can feel the chill clinging to my bones. Surely it cannot be good for the babe."

"Your brother is surely not as weak as that," she spoke in an authoritative voice. "You have spent so little time in these parts that your warm Southron blood rebels at the cold. Nevertheless, you must endure."

Stepping beyond the pillar, she hugged herself loosely. Despite the words she'd used for her son's benefit, she too felt the cold; it's unnatural grip and intensity ripped a shiver from her, as much of a reaction as she was willing to give and might be even more.

Much like the other levels of the crypts were structures, the chaos before them had once been an orderly row of pillars mirrored of the other side. The left side had been ravaged by time, while the right remained unmolested for the most part. Lyanna stepped towards a wide urn, kneeling so that she might lift its lid. "Grain used to be placed in such urns," she elucidated, "and an old legend speaks of a maiden harvesting wheat when her beauty made a conquest out of a famed hero. Unable to win favour with the maiden's kin, he sought to steal her away. He hid her among the grain in such an urn but she suffocated to death. Her kin elected to bury along with the wheat they considered spoiled."

"My gratitude, lady mother; I shall never be able to see any urn with the same eyes." She ignored the answer and presented him with the lid. "See these?" She traced the small carving of a wheat stalk, "It must have taken much skill to have such detailed ornaments."

Jon took the lid from her, holding it up effortlessly. He gazed towards the urn with undisguised curiosity. But she merely wagged her finger at him and chided softly, "Nay, my sweet, no cheating. You must close your eyes and wait for your surprise."

Once certain he would not peek, she returned her attention to the gauze covering the prize. Without effort she bent and tugged the cloth away, lifting from its spot a well-kept secret. Her breath shuddered out in relief at its good condition. She'd been right not to bring it out.

Turning around with her precious cargo, she called her son's attention to her. "You may open your eyes now."

Eager for the surprise, to say the least, Jon immediately followed her instructions. The look upon his face was payment enough, as far as Lyanna was concerned. Wide-eyed, her son leaned in, reaching out as though through a trance, "Is this truly," he cut himself off, swallowing, throat working visibly.

"Your eyes do not deceive you," Lyanna confirmed, handing him the precious weight. "So much for the wisdom of maesters."

Jon held the round shape against his chest, looking down upon the light-coloured scales with apparent wonder. "But how?"

"I do not know to whom to attribute the parentage. One supposes there is some basis to the rumour that Vermax laid the eggs during his stay, but then the maesters call Vermax a male." And yet she could think of no other dragons that had enjoyed Winterfell's hospitality. Would you believe me if I told you finding dragon eggs has changed my life?"

The boy's head shot up just as his direwolf slammed into his leg. "Eggs? As in more than one?"

"I filled several of the urns with those eggs that had not been crushed by the rubble. As a child I was much lither than I am now. Crawling through cramped spaces was not such a trial." She pointed to yet another collapsed beam. "If you can lift that and clear a path, there should be another egg there."

"If it survived," Jon said, eyeing the beam with steely concentration. "Why you, lady mother? Out of all the Starks within these walls, why you?"

She shrugged. There was no answer she could give that might make sense to him. Might as well attempt to frame it with the terms of truth. "I thought I heard my own lady mother calling me down into the darkness. One day, I heeded the call and climbed down into the blackness." Her eyes wandered to an urn she knew to carry a body and not an egg. "And the rest is history." She took the torch from him.

"You had a father, and brothers." As unhelpful as the remark was, she could not help but feel mellowed by it. Of course the poor boy would not understand.

"But I did not have a mother. All I'd ever wanted was to see her smile. She led me to this finding and I assumed the path I thought might bring her joy." Lyanna cleared her throat and sat down upon a severed stump. Her middle cramped with pain and she sighed. "You are almost a man grown. I believe it is time you knew what I have so long put off telling you." His nod of agreement warmed her some. "Giving you this gift is only part of why I chose to come here of all places. Jon, my dear boy, in my heart I feel the darkness tugging at me. This time its call is to stay."

He blanched, the leeching of colour clear even in the lacking torchlight. "Mother, mummery does not suit you. You have given birth before; surely this time is no different. It must be this heavy air. Let us depart before long, aye?"

Despite his not saying it, she knew her child did not worry about stale air. "We can speak of it, Jon. I am not like to burst into tears, you know." He placed the egg at her feet and turned towards the fallen beam, silence clinging to his like a shield might. "I do not know what you father might have said that you insisted to come with me, but I am not a wilting flower."

He crouched by the beam and tested its weight, lifting the rotting wood. "I doubt I can move this without causing the rest of it to come tumbling down." He glanced over his shoulder. "And I am not avoiding the subject, lady mother, you are the one who chose not to broach it. I was merely doing my best to respect your wishes."

Crossing her arms over her chest, Lyanna narrowed her eyes in a glare. Contrary to her earlier words she did have a good idea of what Rhaegar had been filling the boy's head with. Yet she could not bring herself to say as much to his face. It would lead to a standstill, one which she'd been caught into with his father and she hadn't the strength to justify her actions to the son as well. It had been exhausting enough to speak of it to Rhaegar. She did wish there were a way she might make them understand.

No matter, she had achieved one of her objectives. And she need but wait to achieve the others. It would happen sooner or later.

Jon tugged upon the beam, managing to budge it ever so slightly. However, his success was followed by a rain of dust and pebbles as he jumped back. Instinctively she jumped to her feet, a hiss of pain making it past her lips. "Have a care!"

"It would be best if we left, now." Though he spoke in a quiet vice, Lyanna detected the edge of panic much too clearly for her liking. "Ghost, to me."

She too turned towards the doorway leading to the narrow stairwell. Only that before she might take another step, a sharp pain rippled through her middle, pulsing in sync with the booming ache exploding inside her skull. She heard Jon calling to her and she felt something hard beneath her. Breath cut short, she struggled to gulp in fetid air as steady hands turned her over. She reined in a pained moan and held her arms out for Jon to help her up.

"You must keep still," Jon said, pushed her back. "I do not know if I can carry you up the stairs." He winced as a loud crash drowned out the sound of their breath. He nit his lower lip before his gaze moved away from her and then back to her face. "Keep still," he repeated when she attempted to rise. He did help her rest against the stump.

It was then that Lyanna managed to catch sight of the hem of her skirts. The gold thread no longer reflected the warmth of the sun, but shone with a rosy hue in the light of the flickering torch. Her head swivelled towards the entrance.

"I can stand." If only she made it to the stairs, it would still be safer than lingering. In spite of the protests stumbling past his lips, Jon took her weight against him as much as he could. Ghost had already run to the stairs and rested on the first of them, watching them advance through ruby eyes.

The low pant reverberated through her head and she wondered who it was that breathed so hard only to realise that it was she who made those sounds. Swamped by shame she had the unrelenting urge to hide away her face, but nay, she would allow herself to feel in such a manner once she had the luxury of wallowing.

Her son deposited her upon the first step and shrugged off his cloak, creating a cushion of sorts for her to lie upon. He hanged the sconce upon the wall afterwards and turned with a stern frown to his pet. "Ghost, guard." Lyanna saw him point towards her. "I will try to be as expedient as possible, lady mother. I pray you endure awhile longer."

"I will do my best," she echoed his earlier words.

She heard him clambering up the stairs and closed her eyes against the pain. The darkness called out to her. "Not yet," she whispered back. "I need more time."