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Not long after the birth of their first child, a little girl they had named Lyanna, plans were put forward for the new King, Queen, and Princess to make a vast tour of what was left of the Seven Kingdoms and beyond. With the snows melting away and blossom growing again on the trees, it made sense for the restored House Targaryen to visit their subjects, the nobles and smallfolk alike. Jon had been reluctant at first, arguing that it was too soon after Daenerys had given birth and that Lyanna was too young, but Daenerys was adamant, wishing only to see the land that she had only ever really known from stories. She did concede to wait a few months, enough time for Lyanna to grow into a healthy and chubby infant, the apple of both of her parents’ eyes.
It had given them time as well to plan a route. Daenerys had wished to start their tour in the North, despite the kingdom no longer being under the rule of the Targaryen monarchy. Her argument was that she wished to show their daughter her father’s childhood home and where her namesake lay. Jon could not argue with that, nor did he want to. He missed his siblings and his friends and the North, although he was reluctant to admit that Winterfell had never felt truly his home when he was a child. But it was the closest thing to a childhood home either of them had to offer. Daenerys could hardly take Lyanna to wander the Free Cities or the Dothraki Sea. Winterfell would do and Jon was excited to introduce Lyanna to Sansa, Arya, and Bran.
Ravens were sent and the response was swift. Queen Sansa looked forward to their arrival and asked only for an estimated time of arrival. She wanted it all to be perfect for when they arrived.
Lyanna was still far too young to join either parent on a dragon back and so it was decided that the royal family and their retinue would take a ship to White Harbour and then begin their tour south of the Neck after a few weeks at Winterfell.
The spring seas were surprisingly calm and Lyanna was surprisingly quiet, watching the blue skies with wide purple eyes as Drogon and Rhaegal flew above them, from her mother’s arms. Jon watched the pair of them from the other side of the deck, where he and Davos were poring over maps. His heart swelled just looking at them, sat watching the dragons soar and twist over the waters. Daenerys caught his eye and smiled - and he had to look away, strangely embarrassed at being caught watching.
At night, Daenerys would set Lyanna down on the bed between them, her parents a captivated audience while she blew bubbles and kicked her feet in the air. Jon would stroke the dark brown fuzz growing out from her head, surprised still by just how small she was, but also how quickly she was growing. When, eventually, she fell asleep, he would scoop her up as carefully as he could and hand her to her nurse, turning his sole attention back to his wife. They had consummated their relationship like this, on a ship heading north, and each night of this voyage they sought to relive that distant night, again and again.
The journey could not last forever and, before they knew it, they were docking into White Harbour. The Manderlys had done their Queen proud, their city might as well have been sparkling. Jon and Daenerys were grateful for the hearty welcome and for the vast welcome feast laid out for them, but they were both impatient to reach Winterfell.
Arya had come to meet them at White Harbour and to escort them back to Winterfell. She had hugged Jon and Daenerys both, cooed over Lyanna, and wasted no time showing all three her new sword, although she was sure to let Jon know Needle was still her best sword. Sansa had named her sister Master of Arms at Winterfell, and neither Jon nor Daenerys could deny that the position suited Arya well. She had flushed a dark red when Jon had asked after Gendry, saying only that he was now the castle’s blacksmith. Three guesses then who had made her new sword…
Sansa was waiting for them on the Kingsroad just south of Winterfell. The new Queen of the North sat beside Bran under a small pavilion with her ladies and guards, but she quickly rose to her feet when she saw the riders approach. With little thought for decorum, she rushed forward to embrace them both when they dismounted, barely pausing to draw breath before gushing over Lyanna, asleep in a sling against Daenerys’s chest. Her retinue was already packing down their tent and saddling their horses, but Jon still caught a moment to take a seat beside Bran, while Daenerys and Sansa moved away to have a drink and to begin the process of catching up. The strain of his magical abilities had proved too great during the war against the Night King and Bran had been left almost a shell of the little brother Jon had once known, but he still smiled when Jon approached and he absently fondled Ghost’s ears when the great white direwolf came over to rest his head on Bran’s lap. He did not flinch when Drogon and Rhaegal made their appearance then, sweeping down from above the clouds and soaring over the party, although some glasses were dropped and some of Sansa’s guard swore aloud.
If White Harbour was looking particularly spotless, it was nothing compared to Winterfell. The castle was still in the process of being repaired, but it looked almost as Jon remembered it on the morning before he had set out to join the Night’s Watch. The entire castle and the townsfolk were out to greet their Queen and her guests, cheering as the party rode into the courtyard, their banners, both the Stark direwolf and Targaryen dragon, streaming out before them.
Tormund, now Lord of the Gift, was waiting for them and he enveloped Jon into a tight hug, possibly breaking a rib or two in the process. He was more gentle with Daenerys, raising her hand to his lips. His only thoughts on Lyanna was that she was lucky that she took after her mother and not her father.
Gendry stood not too far away, still red-faced and sweaty from the forge. He grasped Jon’s hand and bowed to Daenerys, but he seemed more pleased than anything to see Davos, embracing the old smuggler. Jon did not say anything, but he couldn’t help but notice Arya moving to stand beside Gendry.
“I have chambers prepared for you both if you wish to rest,” Sansa was saying, but she caught the look that Jon and Daenerys exchanged, “but if you wish to visit the crypt…” Jon had made sure to add that request to his letter. Not that Sansa would have refused him, but she declined politely when Jon invited her to join them down in the crypt. Arya had already vanished and Bran was being wheeled to the Godswood, Ghost following close behind.
In the end, it was only the three of them who made the careful journey down into the bowels of Winterfell. Jon carried a torch in one hand and with the other helped Daenerys down the steps, remembering the windy staircase almost instinctively from the times he and Robb had raced up and down the same stairs.
Sansa had told them before of her intention to make statues of their deceased family members, but it was still a shock for Jon to find Robb looking at him, sharp-eyed, forever immortalised in stone. The late King in the North sat enthroned, his sword resting on his lap, Grey Wind resting at his feet. A stone woman beside him sat, pretty but proud. Jon could only assume she was Robb’s queen, the wife who died beside him at the Red Wedding. On Robb’s other side, Rickon sat. The wild child had grown into a fierce youth, but he looked almost at peace in the torchlight, his hand resting on Shaggydog’s head.
Beside them, the man, who Jon had thought of for so long as a father, sat, Ice resting over his legs. He looked at Jon with the same stern expression Jon had always recalled, but there was something else to the great man’s expression. Secrets seemed to rest on the man’s shoulders and in the creases of his brow. Jon thought of the man who had risked his reputation, his life and all he held dear, to protect his sister’s infant and he rested a hand over Ned’s cold stone hand, offering the departed man a silent prayer of gratitude.
At Ned’s side, her stone hand resting over her husband’s other hand, sat Catelyn. The fierce, indomitable Lady Stark held Jon’s gaze squarely, but there was a strange kindness to her statue’s expression, a warmth that Jon had never experienced from her, but what her own children must have remembered of her. She had gone to her own tomb without knowing her husband’s greatest secret, but surely death absolved such secrets. For better or for worse, they were together again and home, surrounded by their children, both living and dead.
Lyanna had woken up and was starting to grumble, uncertain whether she liked this cold, dark, stale new place and Daenerys went to comfort her, shushing and rocking her, as her grizzly cries rang out among the tombs. She had been quietly watching her husband interact with each statue in turn; she knew each of the late Starks by name, but she had never known them. Rather she looked to her husband and took his hand in hers as they turned to the last statue.
Lyanna’s statue stared at them with sad eyes, her sheer youth a tragic shock. Long wilted flowers rested in her lap and a soft smile rested on her lips as she stared, sightlessly, into the face of her son.
Despite the cold of the crypts, Jon’s face was burning, his eyes stinging. He sniffed and coughed awkwardly, turning to his wife, but she was watching him, and tears too were running down her face. She smiled up at him and he could not help but give her a wet smile back.
“Mother,” the word felt so strange to him, he turned back to the statue. “I’d like you to meet Daenerys, my wife.” It felt strange talking to a statue, but it also felt strangely right. “And this here is our Lyanna.”
Their own living and breathing Lyanna had stopped fussing, comforted by the sudden sound of her father’s voice. She quietly allowed him to lift her out of the sling and to raise her up to look at the strange stone being that was her namesake.
And Lyanna Stark only gazed back at them, unseeing, a small, sad smile forever caught on her lips.