As the days passed, Lyanna grew weaker. In the quiet moments between her pain, she spoke to the shadow, her voice soft and wistful.


    “Do you know of Winterfell?” she asked one evening, her gaze distant as if lost in memory.


    The shadow’s form flickered, its curiosity piqued. “I do not,” it replied. “Tell me of it.”


    Lyanna smiled faintly, her eyes glazing over as she recalled her home. “It’s a fortress of stone and iron, built by the First Men thousands of years ago. The walls are tall and strong, and the castle is warmed by hot springs that run beneath it. Even in the coldest winters, the halls are filled with warmth and light.”


    She paused, her voice growing softer. “The godswood is my favorite place. The heart tree there has a face carved into it, and its eyes… they always seem to watch you, no matter where you stand. It’s peaceful there, quiet. When I was a girl, I would sit beneath the tree for hours, listening to the wind in the leaves.”


    The shadow listened intently, its form shifting as if trying to picture the place she described. Winterfell… it thought. A place untouched by the war.


    Lyanna’s smile faded, replaced by a look of longing. “I miss it… the smell of the earth after a rain, the sound of my brothers laughing in the yard, the way the snow falls so softly it feels like the world is holding its breath.”


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    She turned her gaze to the shadow, her eyes filled with tears. “Promise me… promise me you’ll go there. After I’m gone. See it for yourself. It’s the last place in this world that still feels… pure.”


    The shadow hesitated, its form flickering. “I will,” it said at last, its voice soft but firm.


    Lyanna’s smile returned, faint but genuine. “Thank you,” she whispered.


    The next day, Lyanna’s cries of labor filled the room, each one a testament to her fading strength. The shadow watched in silence as she brought forth the twins—Jon and Mary—into the world. But as she held them in her arms, her heart shattered.


    They were stillborn.


    No cries, no breaths, no movement. Just two small, lifeless bodies, their skin pale and cold. Lyanna’s tears fell onto their tiny faces as she clutched them to her chest. “No… no… please…” she sobbed, her voice breaking. “This can’t be… this can’t be how it ends…”


    Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, sat in the corner of the room, his face pale and his hands trembling. He had tried everything—every healer, every maester, every remedy known to man. But they all said the same thing: Lyanna and her children were doomed.


    “There’s nothing more we can do,” the last maester had said, his voice heavy with regret as he leaves the tower. “The babe, the mother… it’s all too late.”


    Arthur clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms. How can this be? he thought. After everything we’ve fought for… after all the vows I’ve kept…


    In his despair, he bit down on his lip so hard that his gums bled. The shadow felt it—a surge of power, faint but undeniable. It was as if Arthur’s pain and resolve had given it strength.