"But you are a Stark, aren't you?" Ned whispers, catching only glimpses and flashes of the young man's face at his bedside. There's no mistake of how the North paints each and every word from his mouth, the darkness of his hair, the eyes. The solemnity of his expression. "I promised her," he continues, "I promised her. I promised I'd keep you safe. She died in my arms, I had her blood on my hands. I couldn't save her. I couldn't save her. I couldn't save her." Ned rustles in the bed, violently re-living the loss of Lyanna in the Tower of Joy, feeling the sticky warmth of her blood against and in between his fingers.

"I couldn't save her, but I could save you. I had to. I'm sorry you hadn't an easier life. I'm sorry I couldn't have told you the truth, but I feared for your life. I knew what Robert'd do if he'd known. I knew. I knew what he'd do." Whatever sieve had previously contained Ned's thoughts surrounding Jon's conception, birth, and upbringing seems to have been entirely misplaced. Ned's not even entirely certain that he's speaking aloud, though Jon would hear every word, however slurred and sluggish. "I couldn't have been prouder of you if you'd been of my own blood. She'd be so proud to see the man you've become."