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Ashara Dayne walked heavily down the steps of the Tower of Joy, cradling a small bundle wrapped in soft cloth.
Tears still stained her face, but her eyes held a look of steel that brooked no argument. She walked straight toward the men who had just finished their dance with death.
She approached Eddard Stark first. He sat like a stone carving, clutching Lyanna's body, his eyes empty voids. Ashara stepped in carefully and offered the bundle to him. Ned lowered his head stiffly, staring at the cloth for a long time. Finally, he sat fully on the ground, keeping Lyanna tucked in one arm while freeing the other. With a motion that was clumsy yet infinitely gentle, he took the infant—the only blood his sister had left in this world.
The faint warmth of the newborn seeped through the cloth, a cruel contrast to the body of his sister growing cold against his chest.
Next, Ashara moved to Oberyn. The Prince of Dorne immediately leaned his spear against the tower wall. He extended his hands, then paused, subconsciously wiping his palms vigorously on his red robes to clean off dust that wasn't there, before solemnly accepting the child. He looked down at the wrinkled little face, a complex storm of emotions flashing through his narrow, viper-like eyes.
When the bundle was offered to Euron Greyjoy, his brow twitched almost imperceptibly. He sheathed his twin blades and reached out. His hold wasn't gentle, but it was exceptionally stable, as if he were holding an artifact of immense value that didn't quite fit his style.
Finally, Ashara turned her gaze to the three Kingsguard, whose hearts were currently nothing but ash. She walked toward them.
As Gerold, Arthur, and Oswell looked at this new life, the dead silence in their eyes seemed to crack open just a fraction. No words were spoken. Silently, almost hastily, they sheathed their weapons and wiped their hands—cleaning away blood and sand—before taking turns to hold the infant. They passed the child from one to another with the gentlest of movements.
In that moment, there was no slaughter, no hatred.
There was only the desert wind, and a pure, innocent life making a silent pilgrimage through a circle of hands that had been stained with blood, but were now trying their hardest to be gentle.
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Eddard Stark slumped on the scalding red sand, looking as if every bone had been pulled from his body. He held Lyanna's cold corpse tight, shielding her from the biting heat of the desert wind with his own chest, though it no longer mattered.
He said nothing. He was like an abandoned reef, battered by the tide. That solemn Northern face was now a blank slate, scrubbed clean by devastating grief. He lifted his head blankly, staring straight up at the ruthless sun. The blinding light stabbed directly into his grey-blue eyes.
He didn't seem to feel the burning pain—or perhaps the physical sting was nothing compared to the agony inside. But the intense light forced a reaction from his stinging eyes. Two lines of scalding tears finally broke through his mask of strength. They slid silently, continuously down his cheeks, mixing with dust and blood. They dripped onto Lyanna's pale forehead, onto her blood-soaked gown, and into the red sand that had witnessed so many broken vows.
He sat there, head thrown back, letting the tears flow, as if screaming a silent, desperate indictment against the indifferent sun.
The silence beneath the Tower of Joy was heavy enough to crush a man.
It was broken by Ashara Dayne. She could no longer suppress her sobs. She turned to Euron, burying her face in his hard chest, her shoulders shaking violently as she wept for the lost Lyanna and for the tragedy that could not be undone.
After the tears washed away some of the despair, she lifted her head, wiping her swollen eyes with the back of her hand. Her gaze drifted involuntarily to the small life awkwardly cradled in the crook of Ned's arm—the child who had arrived just as his mother departed.
A weak but clear cry rose from the bundle. It wasn't the loud announcement of birth, but a fussy, anxious sound—the primal demand of a living thing.
Ashara took a deep breath, forcing herself to detach from the grief. Her voice was thick with tears but driven by clear logic—the instinct of a mother and a caretaker taking over.
"The child is hungry," she announced to the men, her eyes sweeping over their grieving, bewildered faces. "We need to find a wet nurse immediately. Or... at the very least, we need to find a milk goat or a ewe."
That sentence—brutal in its reality and focused entirely on survival—was like a stone thrown into a stagnant pond. It jolted everyone awake from their frozen mourning.
Death was set in stone, but life had to continue.
The three Kingsguard exchanged a glance. No orders were needed. Caring for this new life was now their silent consensus and their final duty.
Ser Gerold Hightower, Ser Arthur Dayne, and Ser Oswell Whent moved immediately. Dragging their injured bodies, they stumbled off in different directions, disappearing behind the jagged rocks and dunes of the Red Mountains.
It didn't take long. Ser Gerold Hightower was the first to return. The white cloak of the Lord Commander was filthy, and his face was etched with exhaustion, but in his hand, he firmly held the tether of a panicked ewe with a visibly full udder. He had managed to find emergency sustenance in this desolate land.
Ashara rushed to meet him. She took the ewe from Ser Gerold, stroking its neck and whispering softly to calm the frightened beast. Then she turned to Ned. Carefully, with an air of sacred solemnity, she took the crying infant from the arms of her brother, who was still drowning in grief.
She sat on the ground, positioning herself sideways against the ewe. With no bottle or bowl, she had to rely on experience and patience. With extreme care, she used her hands to guide the infant, helping him find the teat to suckle directly from the ewe. The animal shifted nervously, but Ashara kept up a stream of soothing words, managing the hungry child and the scared beast with startling tenderness and patience.
As soon as the infant tasted the warm milk, he began to suckle greedily. The heart-wrenching crying was replaced by the sound of loud, rhythmic swallowing.
Ashara looked down at the motherless life in her arms. Watching his eyelashes flutter with satisfaction, her tears began to fall again, silently dropping onto the swaddling clothes.
The three Kingsguard stood quietly to the side, standing watch over this difficult, yet undeniably vibrant scene.