The Red Keep - The Yard
The sun was high and brutal over King's Landing, baking the mud and blood of the city into a hard, stinking crust.
Ned Stark walked out of the Small Council chamber, his mind already miles away. He had won the war. He had secured the throne for Robert. He had saved the innocents. But the weight in his chest hadn't lifted. If anything, it was heavier.
Lyanna.
He stopped in the middle of the courtyard. The Greatjon, Martyn Cassel, and the others were waiting for him, horses saddled, ready for the ride south. They looked eager. They wanted to cross swords with the White Bull and the Sword of the Morning. They wanted glory.
Ned looked at them. Good men. Loyal men.
And in the original timeline, dead men.
If he took them, they might survive this time. Ned was stronger now. But the secret... the secret of the baby in the tower was a dangerous thing. A secret that could tear the realm apart just as it was being stitched back together. Seven witnesses were five too many.
Ned made a decision.
"Plans have changed," Ned announced, his voice cutting through the chatter of the guards.
He turned to Howland Reed. The small crannogman was checking his saddle girth, his green eyes watchful as always.
"Lord Reed," Ned said. "You ride with me. The rest of you... you have new orders."
The Greatjon frowned, his bushy eyebrows knitting together. "New orders? But the Kingsguard, Ned! The Sword of the Morning! You can't leave me out of that scrap!"
"I need you for something more important than a fight, Jon," Ned lied smoothly.
He motioned for Rickard Karstark to step forward.
"Lord Karstark," Ned said formally. "You have the command of the Northern Host. The war is done here. I want you to march them home. Take them up the Kingsroad. See them back to their farms and their families before winter hits. They've bled enough for the South."
Rickard straightened, pride warring with disappointment. "It will be done, my Lord. The North will be waiting for you."
"Good."
Ned turned to the Greatjon. He placed a hand on the giant's arm.
"And you, Jon. You have the most critical task of all."
Ned lowered his voice, leaning in.
"Princess Elia and Princess Rhaenys. They are vulnerable. Tywin Lannister watches them like a starving lion. Robert tolerates them, but his anger is a fickle thing. I need them in Winterfell. Safe."
He looked the Greatjon in the eye.
"I need an escort that cannot be bought, cannot be frightened, and cannot be beaten. I need the Umbers. Take five hundred of your best men. Escort the ladies to the North. If anyone tries to stop you, you put them in the ground."
The Greatjon puffed out his chest, his vanity stroked perfectly. "Let them try! No one touches them, Ned. On my life."
"I know," Ned said.
He turned to the other guards, William Dustin, Martyn Cassel, Theo Wull, Ethan Glover, and Mark Ryswell.
"Go with Rickard," Ned ordered. "Go home. See your families."
"But my Lord," Martyn Cassel protested. "You cannot ride into Dorne with just... Lord Reed." He gestured to the slight form of Howland Reed. "There are three Kingsguard. The deadliest men in the world. Two against three? It's suicide."
"It's stealth," Ned corrected. "We travel light. We travel fast. A large party draws attention. Two riders are just travelers."
The Farewell
Before he left, Ned went back to the Tower of the Hand one last time.
The solar was quiet. Jaime Lannister stood guard outside, true to his word. The Greatjon was already bellowing orders to his men to form up the escort wagons.
Ned entered the room. Elia Martell looked up from her packing. She looked tired, but the terror was gone, replaced by a steely resolve.
"Lord Stark," she said.
"The Council has decided. You are to reside in Winterfell," Ned explained gently but firmly. "You may call yourself a guest, a hostage, or a ward—whatever term helps you sleep. The Lords Paramount care little for the title, only the result. You are insurance against Dorne rising."
Elia stiffened slightly, clutching her hands together, but she didn't look surprised. "I understand. I am a prisoner."
"However," Ned continued, softening his tone. "You are not a prisoner in my home. You may write to your brothers in Sunspear immediately. Tell Prince Doran and Prince Oberyn that they are welcome to visit Winterfell to see you and Rhaenys. I will not stop them, and no door in the North will be barred to them."
Elia looked at him, her dark eyes wide with surprise. "You would allow Oberyn into your castle? He will want blood."
"He will want to see his sister alive," Ned corrected. "And I would rather face the Red Viper over a cup of wine in Winterfell than on a battlefield in the Boneway. Write to them. Tell them you are safe."
Elia let out a breath she seemed to have been holding for a year. A genuine smile touched her lips. "Thank you, Lord Stark. Truly."
"The arrangements are made," Ned told her. "Lord Umber will take you north. He is loud, and he drinks too much, but he is fiercely loyal. You will be safe with him."
"And you?" she asked. "You go to find her?"
"I do."
"Lyanna Stark," Elia said the name softly. There was no hatred in her voice, only sadness. "If... if she lives... tell her..."
Elia trailed off. What could she say to the woman her husband had died for? The woman who had inadvertently sparked the fire that burned Elia's family?
"Tell her that I do not blame her," Elia said finally. "We were all pieces in a game we didn't know how to play."
"I will," Ned promised.
"And you will come back?" Elia asked, a flicker of fear returning. "To the North? You are our shield, Lord Stark. Without you..."
"I will come back," Ned swore. "I just have to retrieve a part of my family first."
He bowed to her, ruffled Rhaenys's hair, and walked out.
The Road South
Ned and Howland rode out of the King's Gate an hour after lunch. They wore simple cloaks—grey for Ned, moss green for Howland—over their mail. No banners. No fanfare. Just two men on fast horses heading into the heat.
They rode hard. Ned set a punishing pace.
By nightfall of the first day, they were deep in the Kingswood, miles ahead of where any normal riders would be.
They made camp in a small clearing. Ned built a fire while Howland tended the horses. The crannogman was quiet, but his eyes missed nothing. He had watched Ned all day—watched the way he moved, the way the horses seemed to gain a second wind whenever Ned touched them.
They sat by the fire, eating dried beef and hardtack. The flames crackled, casting long shadows against the trees.
"You aren't just a soldier anymore, Ned," Howland said. It wasn't an accusation. It was a statement of fact.
Ned looked at the fire. He poked it with a stick. Sparks flew up into the night sky.
"No," Ned admitted. "I'm not."
"I saw you at the Trident," Howland said softly. "I saw you move. Men don't move like that. And I saw you in the city. The gate... the ram... the Mountain."
Howland leaned forward, his green eyes reflecting the flames.
"The swamp has magic," Howland said. "Deep magic. Ancient magic. I know the feel of the Old Gods. But this... what you have... it feels different. It feels like starlight."
Ned sighed. He knew he couldn't hide it. Not from Howland. Not if they were going to face Arthur Dayne together.
"It is the magic of the Starks," Ned lied, or perhaps told a version of the truth. "The blood of the First Men. It woke up in me. In the Eyrie. When I heard about Father and Brandon."
"The Wolf Blood?" Howland asked.
"Something older," Ned said. "I can... see things. Feel things."
"Greensight?"
"Different," Ned said. "Watch."
He looked at a rock near the fire. It was about the size of a melon, heavy and embedded in the dirt.
Ned extended his hand. He didn't strain. He didn't chant. He just willed it.
Rise.
The rock shuddered. Dirt fell away from its sides. Slowly, smoothly, it lifted into the air. It hovered three feet above the ground, rotating gently.
Howland Reed, a man who had communed with the Green Men on the Isle of Faces, a man who knew the secrets of the bog, stared with his mouth open.
"By the Gods," Howland whispered.
Ned clenched his fist. The rock crumbled into dust, raining down onto the fire, making it hiss.
"I have witnessed wargs," Howland murmured, looking at Ned with a mix of awe and fear. "I have heard of greenseers who can look through the eyes of weirwoods. But this... lifting stones? Crushing them?"
"That's the least of it," Ned said, looking at his hand. "I can strengthen my body. I can move faster than the eye can follow. I can sense life around me."
He looked at Howland.
"And I can heal."
Howland blinked. "Heal?"
"I think so," Ned said. "I haven't mastered it yet. But I can feel the life energy in things. I can... manipulate it."
Ned's expression grew dark. The firelight cast deep hollows in his eyes.
"Lyanna is dying, Howland."
Howland stiffened. "You saw this?"
"I feel it," Ned said, tapping his chest. "Like a candle guttering out. She is at the Tower of Joy. And she is hurt. Or sick. If I get there and I can't save her..."
He clenched his fist again.
"I need to be ready. I need to be better."
The Training Ground
The next morning, the journey changed.
They still rode hard during the day, covering ground at a supernatural pace. But during their stops—midday and evening—Ned didn't rest. He trained.
But he didn't swing his sword. He hunted.
He would disappear into the brush, moving with the silence of a shadowcat. He would return with a rabbit, a squirrel, or a fox.
Howland watched, disturbed but understanding, as Ned enacted a grim ritual.
Ned sat by a stream, holding a rabbit he had caught. The animal was terrified, its heart hammering against his hand.
"I'm sorry," Ned whispered to the creature.
He took a small knife and made a shallow cut on the rabbit's flank. The animal squealed, thrashing.
Howland flinched. "Ned..."
"Quiet," Ned hissed, his brow furrowed in concentration.
He placed his hand over the wound.
Ned closed his eyes. He reached into the well of the Force inside him. It was a pool of white light, warm and vibrant. He pushed it out, channeling it through his palm and into the rabbit.
Knit. Repair. Live.
He felt the resistance of the flesh. He felt the blood vessels tearing, the cells dying. He pushed his energy against the entropy.
It was exhausting. It felt like running a sprint while solving a math problem.
The 10x multiplier hummed in the background.
Under his hand, the bleeding stopped. The skin pulled together, pink and new. The fur didn't grow back immediately, but the wound sealed.
Ned slumped back, panting. He looked at the rabbit. It was shaken, but whole. He set it down. It scampered away into the bushes.
"You healed it," Howland said, his voice hushed. "In seconds."
"It's small," Ned wheezed, wiping sweat from his forehead. "A rabbit is easy. A human... a human is complex. There's so much more to go wrong."
Day 4: The Marches
They crossed into the Dornish Marches. The terrain grew rocky and red. The heat increased.
Ned's training escalated.
He found a mountain goat with a broken leg—a natural injury. He spent three hours pouring his energy into the bone, visualizing the calcium knitting, the marrow reconnecting.
He passed out twice from the strain.
"You're killing yourself," Howland warned, offering him a waterskin as Ned woke up, shivering despite the heat.
"I have to learn," Ned croaked. "If she's bleeding... if it's childbirth..."
He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't have to.
Force Heal was the rarest of abilities for a reason. It required the user to give a piece of themselves to the target. It was a transfer.
"I can do it," Ned gritted his teeth, forcing himself to stand. "I have the multiplier. I learn ten times faster. I recover ten times faster. I can do this."
Day 7: The Prince's Pass
The Red Mountains loomed ahead, jagged teeth tearing at the blue sky.
Ned sat on a boulder, looking at a hawk he had just released. The bird had a torn wing. Now, it soared high on the thermals, screeching its defiance.
Ned watched it go. He felt... strong.
The exhaustion was still there, but his capacity had grown. He could feel the flow of life energy now as clearly as he felt the wind. He knew how to stitch flesh, how to fuse bone, how to stem the flow of blood.
"We're close," Howland said, pointing up the pass. "Another day's ride."
Ned nodded. He stood up, buckling Ice onto his back. The greatsword felt lighter now.
He looked at Howland.
"Three Kingsguard," Ned said. "They won't yield. You know that."
"I know," Howland said. "They will fight to the death."
"I can take them," Ned said. It wasn't arrogance. It was a calculation. "But I can't let them kill you. Stay back, Howland. Let me handle Arthur."
"I'm not a swordsman, Ned," Howland said, smiling slightly. "But the crannogmen have their own ways of fighting. I won't get in your way. But I won't let you stand alone."
Ned clasped the smaller man's shoulder. "Thank you."
They mounted up.
As they rode deeper into the mountains, the air grew still. The sounds of the world—the birds, the wind, the insects—seemed to fade away.