Chapter Text
EDDARD
The babe entered the world – silently – its small body cutting away from its mother’s womb, leaving a waterfall of crimson in its wake.
“Rhaegar was wrong,” his sister whispered. Ned grasped her hand, inclining his ear to her breath. “My son,” she wheezed, her eyes hazy and unfocused. “He’s a sword, not a Visenya nor a prince. The red sword that which will strike down the darkness.”
Ned took in her words with grim silence. What madness has Rhaegar filled your head with little sister? He wanted to say. Is it not enough that he left you here in the midst of Dorne, a prisoner to the birthing bed? Not for the first time he wished it had been himself to deliver the final blow upon the Last Dragon. But Rhaegar’s hardly the last dragon is he... Ned said to himself, thinking of his infant nephew and Queen Rhaella and her young son Prince Viserys’ last stand on Dragonstone. He decided to keep his thoughts to himself, and perhaps for the best, for Lyanna’s stormy gaze suddenly locked on his own.
“He will be different. But you must protect him, Ned.” Her small hand gripped his own with a fierceness so sudden he almost tricked himself into believing she’d live to see another day. Her increasingly frail voice, however, said differently. “Protect him from the lions and stags and any who might wish to lead him astray. Even himself. Temper his heart, Ned, and sharpen his steel. It’s so terribly dark, big brother. Promise me . . ."
“I promise,” the words came easily.
When her breathing finally stilled, her eyes losing the final spark of willfulness he would forever cherish, Ned regarded the wet nurse situated across the room. Or more specifically, the swathed bundle held at her breast. Trudging forward, he glimpsed the babe’s whisp of hair, white as snow, and sharp dark eyes. Ned silently said a prayer to the old gods and the new.