"I suppose he would have had me buried in the tradition of the New Gods rather than our own." She gave a huff. It was an eerie feeling, discussing her death so flippantly. She could remember how it felt to be steadily approaching that moment, the lightness in her body, the freedom from pain. Everything seemed to be wrapped in a gauzy veil, a web of haze around her. To know how close she was to death, it was frightening and liberating. She was afraid of it, but knew there was no more fighting. She hadn't told Ned, but it was almost a relief.

She smiled gently, brushing a kiss against his brow. "I am a Stark of Winterfell, Ned. I belong with my family and our Gods." She would have wanted to be buried with Rhaegar, but she couldn't say what happened to his body. It was something she didn't want to consider or think about. The man she lay next to at night, mutilated or worse. Wherever he rested, she couldn't follow. Buried in the crypts of Winterfell, she would be near her son and perhaps, if the Gods were kind, her soul could watch over him.

There was a sharp chill of fear through her, listening to Ned's delirium. "Try not to think about that, Ned." She murmured, hoping to distract him from the rest. It sounded like madness. "You need to rest."