Chapter Text
Allyn is as unpleasant as he ever was; Ashara does not know why she thought it would be different. He looks at her distended stomach and scoffs.
“I always told Father it was only a matter of time before Oberyn Martell got a bastard on you.”
She does not bother correcting him; Allyn will believe whatever he wants, and it is safer if the world believes the child she carries is Oberyn's. Their father is already gone north with Lewyn, and Allyn is now set to join him. Ashara makes certain to avoid her brother for the week before he leaves, settling into the chamber which was once hers. It is odd to be home, odder still to realize it has not been home since she was Arianne's age. Home was Arthur and their mother, and both are gone now.
The only bright spot to her return is Allyria.
At five, her baby sister is already terribly bright and incredibly energetic. She is awake before the sun and often escapes her septa's watchful gaze with next to no real effort, and Ashara loses count of how often she hears Allyria being upbraided by the poor robed woman. There is no shyness to Allyria; though Ashara is a stranger to her, she does not hesitate in those first days to put her hands on Ashara's stomach to feel movement, does not think it rude to slip into Ashara's chamber and wake her. It isn't until she has been in Starfall for a fortnight that Ashara understands why Allyria seems to be so fascinated by her: she longs for a mother.
“What was our mother like?” Allyria asks one morning while Ashara weaves her hair into a complicated labyrinth of braids. It is the only time of day Allyria remains still, and Ashara finds herself overcome with affection for the girl.
Ashara does not want to tell her sister that she barely remembers their mother, that she was taken away from her when she was hardly older than Allyria is now. The Lady of Dorne had been the woman Ashara learned from, the one who taught her lessons, explained what moonblood was, and showed her how to apply kohl around her eyes; but Ashara cannot tell Allyria that, so she tells her tales of half-remembered events and bits of falsehood peppered here and there.
She tells Allyria that Myriah Allyrion of Godsgrace was the most beautiful woman in Dorne when she wed their father. Ashara tells her how their mother would sing from her chambers, which were in the Palestone Sword because it had the best view of the Summer Sea, and how you could hear her from anywhere in Starfall; she even hums a few bars of a song, though Ashara cannot remember what exactly her mother sung. She stresses how much of a wanted child Allyria was, and it doesn't feel like a lie; Ashara remembers the miscarriages, the stillborns, and she suspects Allyria had been wanted.
Ashara does not tell her how their mother was too old to bear another child, how the maesters and midwives told her that she should stop trying, and it was their father's stubborn insistence for more children which lead to her desperation to bear another. She does not tell her how their mother used to lament that it was Allyn and Arthur who inherited their father's fair skin and blond hair rather than Ashara. She certainly does not tell Allyria about the day she asked if she could marry a boy from the Reach so she could live near orchards and their mother sadly petted Ashara's dark hair and said it was unlikely she would not marry a Dornishman. Ashara doesn't explain how it took her years to understand what her mother was truly saying, how men from the other realms would admire her beauty and even try to bed her but would never never allow their sons to marry her.
Allyria is their mother in miniature: thick black hair, warm golden skin, Rhoynish features. Only her eyes hint at belonging to House Dayne, the same purple as Ashara's and their brothers', and Ashara makes certain to tell her every day how beautiful she is, how she is the most beautiful woman in all Seven Kingdoms and the Free Cities too.
She is telling Allyria of the Water Gardens and how, when the war is over, they will go there when Maester Jesper brings her a letter. As Allyria asks if she will get to play with Princess Rhaenys, Ashara breaks the seal and is immediately confused; the letter is from Mellario rather than Oberyn. It has been ages since Oberyn's last letter, not since the one informing her that Queen Rhaella and Prince Viserys had been sent to Dragonstone. Now, as she reads Mellario's words, Ashara feels as if she has forgotten her letters entirely because none of this makes sense.
Rhaegar is dead, killed on the Trident by Robert Baratheon is the first sentence which gives Ashara pause. With Rhaegar dead, Aegon is now the heir to the Iron Throne, and Ashara knows Elia must be panicking, must known Aerys will not allow her to return to Dorne to visit with the children now.
Tywin Lannister and his men have sacked King's Landing makes her breathing catch, panic swelling in her breast before remembering no one can enter Maegor's Holdfast.
Jaime Lannister has killed the Mad King shocks her. She thinks of Ser Jaime as she last saw him, smiling indulgently at Prince Viserys as the boy begged the knight to show him how to hold his wooden sword; she cannot imagine that sweet faced boy murdering Aerys Targaryen no matter how much he deserved it.
Lannister men have killed Elia and her children.
She does not remember screaming, but later Allyria will tell her she shrieked as if the Stranger touched her. Ashara drops to her knees, wailing as she tears at her gown, her hair, her face; she feels hands trying to contain her, dimly hears Maester Jesper shouting for assistance. The rush of fluid between her legs means nothing; even as the men carry her upstairs, even as she is stripped of her clothing, Ashara cares nothing for birthing the child trying to fight its way from her womb. Maester Jesper forces some sort of dram past her lips; it makes her head heavy, makes her feel as if she is moving fog. Women hold her arms to the mattress as two women hold her knees wide so the maester can rip her child from her body. Ashara barely feels it, barely registers the indignant wails of the babe; as her head lolls back on the pillows, all she can say is Elia's name.
“I left her,” she slurs to the woman carding hair off of her damp forehead, the one who is going to be the babe's wet nurse, the one Ashara thinks is called Wylla.
“It is a boy, my lady,” Wylla tells her. “He shall need a name.”
“I should have been there,” she continues as her eyes begin to droop, nearly choking as another dram is all but poured down her throat.
“Do you have a name for your son?” Wylla presses as the babe is given to her to suckle.
Maester Jesper keeps her well-and-truly drugged for nearly a week, as if his concoctions will make her forget Elia is dead. It is only when he declares he can give her no more sweet sleep that Ashara learns the name she has given her son is Jon.
He looks exactly like Ned.
Ashara doesn't know what she expected her child to look like; she never gave it much thought. But when she looks over the edge of the cradle on the first day she manages to leave her bed, all Ashara sees is his Stark blood. His skin is even fairer than Arthur's, smooth and soft when she runs her fingertips across his belly; when he opens his eyes, they are the stormy grey of his father's and far more alert than Ashara thinks a baby's eyes have ever been. But his hair is hers, thick and dark with hints of curls, and she is genuinely surprised at the rush of emotion she feels towards this helpless child.
Yet she cannot bring herself to hold him, to cradle little Jon in her arms; though her breasts ache with milk, she will not nurse him. Though she steals into his chamber to look upon him, Ashara cannot look at Jon without thinking of Rhaenys, stabbed half-a-hundred times, or Aegon, his head dashed against the wall. She cannot look at Jon when she knows his birth is the reason Elia died alone, that her returning to Dorne to birth him left Elia to die by Gregor Clegane's hands without a soul beside her. Ashara barely sleeps, her nightmares of Elia's final moments playing over and over in her head, and rising from her bed has become a struggle. Maester Jesper brings letters from Mellario at the Water Gardens keeping her abreast of what is happening, and the day Mellario writes that Tywin Lannister presented the bodies of Elia's children to Robert Baratheon as a gift is the day Ashara vows she will never take the knee to the drunken fool responsible for such depravity.
Oberyn will kill them all: Tywin Lannister, Amory Lorch, Gregor Clegane, Robert Baratheon. Ashara does not doubt it, does not hesitate to believe he will burn the kingdoms to avenge Elia, Rhaenys, and Aegon. One afternoon as she watches Wylla nursing Jon, Allyria hovering close by, eager to play with her nephew, Ashara wonders what happened to poor Rhaella and the babe she carried, if sweet Viserys still lives; there has been no mention of the last Targaryens in Mellario's letters, and it puzzles Ashara why she suddenly cares so much.
She thinks of the Mad King, of the way he'd ignore his queen until he burnt a man; too many times Ashara had heard Rhaella cry for help, beg someone to help her. Once, when she was looking for Rhaenys's kitten, she had stopped outside the queen's chamber to talk to Arthur. Queen Rhaella's shriek from behind the door made her jump, made her look to Arthur and Ser Barristan whom she expected to rush through the doors to save their queen; instead Barristan looked away and Arthur gently nudged her along. No one saved Rhaella then; no one ever saved her.
Did anyone try to help Elia? Did anyone rush to protect her children? Where was the Kingsguard?
But Ashara knows that the only knight left in Kings Landing was Jaime Lannister, the falsest knight of all.
It is the glint of the sun on white armor which draws Ashara's attention out the window. For a moment, she thinks she is hallucinating, that grief and longing has poisoned her mind into believing he is here. And then she sees him swing down from his horse, handing the reins to the stable boy, and Ashara can do noting but run, her skirts gathered in her hands.
Arthur grunts as she hurls herself into his arms, locking her arms around his neck as the tears come; her older brother's arms encircle her tightly, holding her off of the ground as if she is as small as Allyria, and Ashara has never been so happy to see anyone in her life. It has been so long, she thought him dead as well, another victim of Rhaegar's selfishness, but Arthur is here, safe and sound, and she thinks she may be fine now, that mayhaps the world is not nearly as doomed as she thought.
“I hear I have a nephew,” he murmurs against the crown of her head, and all Ashara can do is nod, refusing to release him even as he carries her back into the solar.
Allyria squeals in excitement at the sight of Arthur, and it is only then Ashara pulls away so Allyria can embrace him. Arthur tosses her into the air as if she weighs no more than a feather, Allyria laughing so joyfully, it brings a smile even to Ashara's lips. As he sets Allyria onto her feet, Arthur catches sight of Wylla lacing her gown, Jon content in her arms, and the knight grins, extending his arms for Wylla to place the boy in his arms.
“And what is this strong lad called?”
“Jon,” Allyria supplies, bouncing on the balls of her feet. “If I sit down, I am allowed to hold him but only when Wylla is done with him. He likes me lots; he does not even cry when I hold him. Well, usually.”
Arthur smiles at Ashara. “He looks like you.”
“No,” she instantly argues, folding her arms over her chest, “he is like his father.”
“In the eyes mayhaps,” Arthur allows, “but he looks just as you did when you were born.” It is then Arthur looks at her, truly looks, and Ashara feels herself flush under his gaze as he moves to hand her Jon. She steps back, shaking her head, and his brow furrows in confusion before attempting again; Wylla steps forward, offering to take the babe so they may visit, Allyria announcing her willingness to help, and Arthur keeps his eyes trained upon her as the trio disappears from the solar.
“Are you ill that you cannot hold him?”
Until this moment, no one has spoken a word to Ashara about her apparent disinterest in her child. She suspects Jesper told the servants to give her a wide berth, and Wylla never acts as if her behavior is odd in the slightest. The closest to broaching the topic anyone had come was when Wylla pleasantly told her the tale of her own first child, how she felt weighted with sadness for several moons afterward before waking up one day and feeling better. Ashara supposes she meant it to be comforting, but it wasn't; it is not the birthing bed which has burdened her down with despair.
The anger rises sharply in her chest, overwhelming in its ferocity. She does not consciously decide to strike at her brother, but suddenly Ashara is beating useless fists against his armor, bloodying her knuckles and wearying herself as she screams accusations at him.
“You were supposed to protect her! They murdered her, and it's all your fault! They raped her, they murdered her, they killed her children, and you were nowhere to be found! You and your fucking useless brothers left her to die in the Keep while you protected that treacherous bastard! You helped him steal that poor girl, and we all paid the price! You do not know! You do not know what happened, what I saw - “
Her words die as the tears come, her body sagging against his even as her fists still pound at his armor. Arthur gently catches her wrists in his hands, kissing her shredded skin, and he holds her as the grief threatens to drown her again. If it was any other day, Jesper would already have forced sweet sleep down her throat, but he will not dare to do so with Arthur here, and so Ashara sobs until her throat is raw, until her eyes feel as dry as the deserts, until the sun has set and they sit on the floor of the darkened room.
“I should have been there,” she whispers in the blackness, her head resting on Arthur's thigh as he cards his fingers through her hair. “I swore I would always be there.”
“The Mountain would have killed you too.”
“But Elia would not have died alone. No one should die alone, Arthur, but especially not her.” Her breathing hitches but there is no moisture left for tears. “She must have been so scared. And the children...Who could do that to children? They say he killed little Aegon before her eyes, that she saw her son - “
“Ashara - “
“Why did he have to rape her?” she continues, unable to stop voicing her thoughts now that she is finally able to speak. “It was not enough to kill her children, to kill her? Why did he have to make her last moments be that? To think the last thing she felt was him - “
“Ashara, please do not think of this,” Arthur pleads, and, as she looks up, she sees there is wetness shining on his cheeks, that the final moments of Elia and her children horrify him as well. “It will drive you mad.”
“Why did Rhaegar do this? Why didn't he come back for them?”
“He planned to,” Arthur murmurs. “He just had to wait until it was time, and then he was going to force Aerys to abdicate; he wanted a better life for his children, happier kingdoms for us all.”
“And, what, he wanted to rape Lyanna Stark before doing that?”
“He didn't rape Lyanna; he was in love with her.”
Ashara pushes herself into a sitting position, rubbing at her raw face. “What?”
“It started at Harrenhal. She was the mystery knight, and he was taken with her. I think nothing would have come of it, I truly do, but then Elia was told there could be no more children and Rhaegar was convinced there had to be a third. He wrote her, and they planned to meet at Winterfell. Rhaegar wanted to marry her like the Targaryen kings of old, but Lyanna said it couldn't happen because she was betrothed to Robert Baratheon. None of us imagined Brandon Stark would do what he did.”
“You stole his sister. What did you think he would do?”
“We were only to be hidden until she conceived and then Rhaegar would announce they married. But once Aerys killed Brandon and Lord Stark, once the banners were called, Rhaegar knew it would not end so easily. This was not what Rhaegar wanted.”
“But it is his fault!” Ashara explodes, scrambling to her feet. “Elia loved him, nearly killed herself giving him two children, and it was still not enough for him! He ruined everything!”
Arthur moves slowly as he rises, his jaw firmly set. She can see the pain on his face, and it strikes her suddenly that Rhaegar Targaryen was his best friend, that he loved the prince in the same way she loved the princess. It softens her then; she hates Rhaegar Targaryen, hopes he is burning in all seven hells, but he was Arthur's friend.
“What happened to Lyanna Stark?”
“There's a tower in the Prince's Pass where we have been staying. She is due in the birthing bed any day now.”
“And then? What do you think Robert will do to her babe, to her? Do you think you and the White Bull and Oswell Whent will be able to keep them safe forever?”
“Not forever,” he corrects. “Rhaegar gave us orders we are to keep Lyanna and the child safe, and then, if something happened to him, we were to take them both to the Free Cities.”
“The Free Cities? Why would - “ Ashara stops, realization hitting her immediately. “Jon Connington. Aerys sent him into exile; you're to take Lyanna and her child to him.”
Arthur nods. “We are to serve as their Kingsguard until the child is of age. Willem Darry has taken Prince Viserys and Princess Daenerys to Braavos - “
“What happened to the queen?”
Arthur's face darkens. “She died in the birthing bed shortly before Stannis Baratheon and his men arrived on Dragonstone.”
She thinks of the last time she saw Prince Viserys, the day before she left King's Landing for good. He had been with Ser Barristan, who blushed when Ashara greeted him. The little prince asked if it was true she was returning to Dorne, and, when she confirmed it, he frowned in that way which made him look precisely like his father and grumbled, “Everyone is going away.”
Ashara feels much the same way now as she realizes what Arthur is telling her, that he will be going to the Free Cities to protect Rhaegar's last remaining child. For as much as she hates Rhaegar, she cannot bring herself to hate Lyanna Stark; she thinks she understands the girl who wanted to escape a betrothal to a man she did not want, who harbored fantasies of being Rhaegar's wife. After all, it is the same sort of wishful thinking which lead Ashara to bear Lyanna's nephew. She knows Elia would want no harm to come to Lyanna, to her child, and it is for that reason Ashara takes a deep breath and says, “You will need supplies.”
Arthur stays only two days, the majority of his days spent playing with Allyria and doting upon Jon. Ashara finds her throat growing tight on the day Arthur leaves, at the way Arthur cradles her son in his muscled arms, his finger encircled by Jon's tiny hand. “Oh, what a strong boy you are,” Arthur murmurs. “You shall wield Dawn, won't you?”
“Arthur - “ Ashara begins, her voice cracking as she blinks back tears.
He lifts his gaze away from Jon, violet meeting violet, and deliberately he steps forward, silently urging her to take Jon from him. She does not have time to refuse, not when Arthur is transferring her son into her arms; though Jon is not a large baby, he feels incredibly heavy in her arms, his grey eyes staring serenely up at her as if he knows who she is and feels safe.
“I will send word when we are to leave. We'll likely sail from here,” Arthur tells her, his hand cradling the nape of her neck as he presses a kiss to her forehead. “You and Jon are welcome to come with us.”
It is a sweet offer, one she knows he means to be helpful, but the idea of serving Lyanna Stark, of her son being the companion of Lyanna's child makes her heart ache. “Word will be enough.” Shifting Jon so she can embrace her brother, she murmurs, “I feel as if we are always saying goodbye.”
“I'll be back in a few weeks. Mayhaps by then Father and Allyn will have returned, and we can all be together before I leave.”
“I would like that,” she says, squeezing him one last time before watching him swing up onto his horse. It surprises her how much she means it, how much she would like to have her family together. As Allyria chases Arthur down the path, shouting farewells and declarations of how much she loves him, Ashara looks down at Jon, at the pout of his mouth, at the way he nuzzles against her breast as his eyes droop closed, and she cannot help but smile. For the first time, she sees her son rather than what has been lost, and, when Wylla comes to fetch him for his feeding, Ashara is almost reluctant to hand him to her.
“He's a sweet babe, isn't he, my lady?” Wylla asks in her cheerful way, easily maneuvering her nipple into Jon's questing mouth. Before Ashara can respond, she continues, “Never nursed a boy who takes to the teat so easy, and he hardly ever cries. I wish all babes were as quiet as he is.”
Taking a seat in the chair opposite of her, Ashara offers, “His father is a quiet man.”
“Handsome?” Wylla prods, and Ashara cannot help but chuckle.
“Yes.”
“It's a shame he has not seen his son. A man would be lucky to have a son as fine as this.”
“His father...He wed someone else during the war.”
Wylla clucks her tongue, stroking Jon's cheek. “The only thing war is good for is making orphans and bastards. Was your love a Dornishman?”
“A Northman.”
“Oh, I always wanted to see the North. My father, he went to White Harbor once to trade, and he said the snows were as tall as men and the whole place smelled like pine, whatever that smells like. And I've never been cold. I think I'd like to try it once.”
“You've never been outside Dorne?”
Wylla shakes her head, transferring Jon to her other breast. “No, I was barely four-and-ten when I got married, and he was in service here in the stables. My third girl was born about the same time as Lady Allyria, and your father paid me to be her nurse. My husband, useless man that he is, ran off with some girl from the Reach, so I just stay on, offering my services where I can. I was at High Hermitage for a bit, but I confess you are a much nicer lady than the other Lady Dayne.”
Ashara smiles at Wylla's bluntness. She has never much cared for the Daynes of High Hermitage herself. “You're a good woman.”
“It is easy to be a good woman when in service to good people.”
“Yes,” she agrees, remembering Elia's smile, “it is.”
When Jon has finished suckling, Wylla pauses before asking if she'd like him again. Ashara nods, carefully cradling him as she walks the halls of Starfall. It isn't until later she realizes she has been telling him stories of Elia the entire time.
Arthur's letter arrives barely a fortnight later, dark words carried by dark wings. He writes that the child Lyanna bore died mere hours after birth; he describes the little girl he calls Visenya as silver haired and purple eyed, a true Targaryen, and Ashara cannot imagine what it must be like to be Lyanna Stark now, to know her child has died and everything was truly for naught.
I fear for Lady Lyanna, Arthur's bold hand declares. She has fallen ill with fever, and nothing seems to quench it. Her body is so weak from the birth, we do not dare try to move her. I worry she will not last another fortnight in the state she is in.
Ashara barely knows Lyanna Stark; she cannot even remember what she looks like. But she remembers Brandon, remembers the desperation in his actions when he tried to save her, remembers the way Ned spoke of his sister, and Ashara does not want Lyanna to die alone so far from home. It is how Elia perished, Doran and Oberyn too far to help her, to tell her they loved her, and it is not a fate Ashara wishes on young Lyanna Stark.
She sends ravens to King's Landing, Storm's End, Riverrun, the Eyrie, and Winterfell, anywhere she thinks Ned might be. If in the Vale or the North, Ashara knows he will never reach the Prince's Pass in time to see his sister, but still she sends the letters. She does not write of Jon or their aborted betrothal, does not write anything beyond Lyanna is in a tower in the Prince's Pass with the last of the Kingsguard. The daughter she birthed is already dead, and the birthing fever is like to claim her too. Hurry.
Brandon Stark started a war to win his sister back; the least Ashara can do is give Ned the chance to say goodbye.
It is a beautiful day, unseasonably warm even for Dorne, and Allyria insists they have a picnic near the cliffs. Amused by her sister's enthusiasm for the idea, Ashara agrees, inviting Wylla and her girls to accompany them. While the girls gather the last of the autumn flowers, Ashara rocks Jon while she talks with Wylla, listening to a story about two of the kitchen girls fighting over the stable master. Her ribs have just begun to ache from laughter when Allyria calls, “Ashara, who is coming up the way?”
Ashara twists her head to look and instantly hope swells sharp in her breast. Even at a distance, she recognizes Ned, sitting tall and certain in his saddle, a much smaller man riding beside him. She quickly hands Jon to Wylla, pushing to her feet, and all the anger, all the pain of the past year seems to dissipate as Ned comes closer.
He came for me, he came for Jon, she thinks as she begins to rush toward him, all cool propriety forgotten. So much has been lost since the war began, and all she wants is to have something back, to have Ned back.
And then she sees the great sword strapped to his saddle, the silver pommel inlaid with amethyst, the hint of the blade pale as milk glass, the scabbard Ashara had specially made for Arthur's 30th name day. The air rushes from her lungs, shocked into numbness at what this means; her footsteps falter, and she feels Allyria sidle up beside her, confusion thick in her voice as she asks, “Why does that man have Arthur's sword?”
You cannot fall apart, Ashara tells herself as Ned approaches, climbing off of his horse, holding Dawn with great care. You must be like Elia, like Arthur. You must be brave.
War has aged Ned. His face bears lines now, as if he is far older than nine-and-ten, and she can see dried blood on the upper arm of his shirt; his beard still covers most of his face, but his eyes - Jon's eyes – are as clear as they ever were, speaking so much more than his mouth ever does.
They do not speak at first. Ashara accepts Dawn in silence, the blade nearly as long as her body, and she wonders if Arthur died with this in his hands, if he wielded Dawn until the very end. Allyria looks between them, clearly at a loss, and finally she looks up at Ned and demands, “Who are you? Where is Arthur?”
“This is Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell. Arthur has gone away to be with Mother.”
“But Mother is in the heavens.” Allyria begins to cry immediately, her arms encircling Ashara's leg. “If Arthur is in the heavens, he cannot come back.”
Turning her attention away from Ned, Ashara motions one of the servants over. She tells him to make certain Ned and his companion are fed and given rooms before instructing another to take Dawn to its place of honor in the great hall. It takes all of her strength to heave a now sobbing Allyria up into her arms, her knees nearly buckling under the weight, but she smooths her hand over Allyria's dark hair and carries her into the keep, murmuring nonsense into her ear, trusting Wylla to see to Jon.
Allyria is inconsolable, sobbing against Ashara's shoulder until she soaks the material with her tears; she wails for Arthur, begs to know if Allyn and Father are in the heavens too, and Ashara wishes she understood children more, that she was the type of woman skilled in handling them. She rocks her sister as if she is as small as Jon, sings off-key songs and tries to remember the words the High Septon used when telling Elia of her mother's death. Nothing soothes Allyria's broken heart, and it is only after the sun has set and still she cries that Ashara allows Maester Jesper to give her a bit of sweet sleep.
She immediately heads to her own chambers after leaving Allyria, barring the door from visitors before slipping to the floor, pushing her fists into her mouth to muffle her own cries. Her own confusion could rival Allyria's; she does not understand how anyone could best Arthur in battle, how Dawn could come home but Arthur could not. For as long as she can remember, Arthur has been strong, has been heralded as one of the greatest knights to ever live; she had forgotten that even the greatest knights fall.
It takes her nearly an hour to rise from the floor and another still to make herself presentable. She carefully wipes the ruined kohl from around her eyes, washing her face clean; brushing out her hair, Ashara quickly weaves it into a thick braid which lies heavy over her shoulder. The woman in the looking glass could not appear more different than the woman Ned Stark first met at Harrenhal, but she feels beyond vanity now. The pride she once took in her beauty means nothing now, not when the people she loves are dead, not when the life she thought she would have is far beyond her grasp. She barely feels like Ashara Dayne of Starfall now; grief has transformed her into someone else entirely.
Ned and his companion are supping in the great hall, the room blanketed in heavy silence. When Ned sees her, he instantly gets to his feet, still a man of impeccable manners, and it is oddly reassuring as she makes her way to the head of the table, to the lord's seat. Someday it will belong to Allyn and his sons, but today it is hers, and she must look at the men responsible for her brother's death.
“Is Lady Allyria,” Ned begins before tapering off, obviously uncertain how to finish his question.
“Her heart is broken,” is all Ashara offers in reply, motioning for one of the serving girls to fill her wine cup. She cannot bear the idea of food, but drowning herself in Dornish red sounds like the best idea she has ever had. Turning her attention to the small man beside Ned, she says, “You were at the tourney at Harrenhal, were you not?”
The man nods. “I am Howland Reed of Greywater Watch, my lady.”
“I'm not familiar with Greywater Watch, Lord Reed.”
The crannogman smiles wanly. “Few are. We like it that way.”
It is not until she is half-drunk that Ashara dares to truly look at Ned. His hair is shaggy now, held back on the sides with a leather tie; he is wearing different clothing than when he arrived, and she notices there is embroidery on the tunic, a simple pattern of wolves. It is something a wife does for her husband, and it sours her stomach even more.
“How many men did it take to kill my brother?” she blurts out, pinning Ned with her gaze. When Ned stares at her a bit blankly, she rushes on, “I know a single man could not have done it. How many was it?”
“Our party was seven when we entered the tower,” he diplomatically replies, no true answer at all.
“You and Lord Reed must be excellent swordsmen then to best three knights of the Kingsguard. You do not strike me as a formidable opponent with a sword, Lord Reed.”
“I am not, Lady Dayne.”
“So it was you who killed my brother,” Ashara determines, turning her eyes back on Ned, who does not flinch away. “I hope it was a quick death, that you gave him the honor of that. Or does Robert Baratheon not allow for quick deaths? Must everyone who bends their knee to him desecrate the ones they kill?”
“It was a clean death, my lady,” Ned calmly responds, “and he was given a proper burial as well. He deserved respect - “
“The same respect Lannister men gave Elia and her children?” she challenges.
Ned's face darkens in anger. “What was done to Princess Elia and her children was a crime of the highest order.”
“And I suppose that is why the heads of their murderers' rest on pikes above the Red Keep? It is why Tywin Lannister was stripped of all his holdings? It is why Cersei Lannister will be kept from being queen?” She chokes out a mirthless laugh. “Oh, wait, none of those things happened. Why would they? She was just some Dornishwoman, the mother of dragonspawn. What does she matter at all?”
“No one deserved what was done to the princess.”
“On that, we will agree.” She raises her hand, pointing to her cup, and the servant moves cautiously, as if he is uncertain whether or not to obey. Down the table, Ashara sees Wylla, her face carefully expressionless, and Ashara does not want to be here anymore. She does not want to be at Starfall, in this hall, in Dorne; she wants to be anywhere but at this table with Ned Stark.
“Lady Dayne,” Ned ventures, “you must understand - “
“How is your wife, Lord Stark?” she interrupts, and this time he flinches, his gaze dropping. “I hear it was a double wedding with Lord Arryn, a Tully girl for each. Thank goodness you did not need the assistance of House Tyrell; Janna and Mina are ghastly in every respect.”
“It was unexpected - “
“Oh, I'm certain it was! But they say the best things are unexpected, gifts from the gods even.” Sweeping her arm wide, wine sloshing a bit over the side of her cup, she rambles on, “For example, I certainly didn't expect to find myself with a broken betrothal and a bastard son, but we must soldier on, mustn't we, Lord Stark?”
Her words have hit their mark, shame and shock warring for a place on Ned's handsome face, but she does not care. Half-stumbling from her chair, she bids no one goodnight, unable to stand the sight of Ned a moment longer. By the time she reaches her bed, the room is spinning, and all she can do is close her eyes and pray this has all been a terrible dream.
In the morning, her head aches and her mouth is as dry as the desert, but Ashara knows she cannot stay abed. Allyria is sniffling with remembered loss even as Ashara enters her room, and it is the first morning she does not plead with Ashara with style her hair. Instead she rests her head against Ashara's shoulder and asks if they can play with Jon.
Allyria is carefully cradling Jon in her arms, Ashara protectively hovering at her elbow to help, when Wylla leads Ned into the solar. Her immediate instinct is to chastise the wet nurse, to send Ned away this moment, but she sees the way his face softens at the sight of Jon, the way his hands flex like a child forbidden to touch. Without wine and acute sorrow clouding her judgment, Ashara finds there is a strange hole in her heart where Ned is concerned.
“Allyria, why don't you go with Wylla and break your fast? Jon and I will be here when you're finished.”
Reluctantly handing over her nephew, Allyria ignores Ned, taking Wylla's hand and allowing herself to be lead away. The closing of the solar's door seems impossibly loud, and, for all of the conversations she once planned in her head, Ashara finds she now has no idea what to say to the father of her child.
“Do you want to hold him?” she finally asks, and Ned nods immediately. His hands do not waver as he slips one hand beneath Jon's back, the other supporting the baby's head so he can look upon him. The genuine awe on his face makes Ashara ache, the pain deepening as he murmurs, “What is his name?”
“Jon.”
“Jon,” Ned repeats, a smile playing at his lips. “Oh, that is a fine name. When was he born?”
“Three moons past, just after – Just after King's Landing was sacked.”
As he tucks Jon close to his body, Ned sinks into one of the chairs, his face obviously troubled. After a moment, he looks up at her and asks, “Why did you not send word of him? If I had known - “
“You would have married Catelyn Tully anyway, but I would have a beautiful letter explaining why you did,” she interrupts, no malice in her voice. “Besides, where was I to send word? The Stoney Sept? The Trident? Riverrun?”
Ned's eyes return to Jon, whose eyes are drooping shut, lulled by the sound of their voices. “It was not easy for me,” Ned informs her, his stoicism slipping with each word. “I certainly did not intend to break my promise to you, but - “
“But you needed Hoster Tully's bannermen, and he would not give them without his daughter being made Lady of Winterfell. I spent years of my life in the Red Keep, Ned. I do know how allegiances are made.”
So soft Ashara nearly does not hear, Ned whispers, “I did not know you came home. When I rode into King's Landing, when I saw what the Lannisters had done, I feared - “ He shakes his head, appearing to hold Jon even tighter. “I did not want this to be how we met again.”
“I am sorry I could not die and make it easier for you.”
“That is not what I meant!” Ned snaps, startling her and Jon both. As he tries to soothe Jon's high whimpers, he fiercely growls, “How could you think that? You have no idea how often I thought of you.”
“And when did you think of me, Ned? When you were taking Catelyn Tully's maidenhead? I mean, assuming Brandon left her with one - “
“Do not do this, Ashara, please.”
Guilt tugs at her heavy heart, and she wishes she was more even-tempered, wishes she could be as quiet and still. After a moment, she rises, crossing to the far window to stare out at the Summer Sea, the waves crashing against the cliffs. Finally she murmurs, “I think it is best if you leave as soon as possible. If you are here when my father and Allyn return, it will become quite unpleasant.”
When she finally turns back around, Ned is gazing down at Jon, his eyes wet with emotion. The sight steals her breath, strikes her sharply in the tenderest part of her heart, and Ashara bites her tongue to keep all her words from spilling out, leaving her bare before him.
“Howland and I will leave at dawn,” Ned agrees, one calloused finger stroking the softness of Jon's cheek. “I have inconvenienced you enough.”
Ashara leaves him in the solar with Jon, unable to bear the sight of Ned being so sweet with their son another moment.
It is not planned, but then so much of Ashara's life has occurred without one. Allyria is asleep in Ashara's bed, her face pushed into feather pillows, her arms wrapped tightly around the doll Arthur gave her on her last name day; she looks even smaller in the sea of blankets, and there is something in the way Allyria instinctively pushes her head to follow Ashara's caress of her hair which brings to mind Rhaenys. After Aegon's birth, when Elia was so weak she could scarcely move some days, it had fallen to Ashara to soothe Rhaenys when Rhaella was not available, and sometimes, when she is balanced on the edge of sleep and awake, Ashara swears she hears Rhaenys's giggle, catches the scent of the juniper soap Elia used to wash her hair, glimpses Balerion leaping onto a chair. Suddenly her chamber feels too small, too stifling, and all Ashara wants is to forget what has been done to the people she loves and seek revenge on those who did it.
The night dress was a gift from Oberyn, one of the many he brought back from the Summer Islands after Sarella's birth. It is beyond indecent, diaphanous orange silk held together with little more than hope and a few bits of thread; the neckline plunges deep, her breasts nearly exposed, the darker skin of her nipple visible through the material. She has not worn it since the night of Elia's wedding, and her body has changed from carrying Jon; it clings through the hips, the swell of her stomach making the material lay oddly, but Ashara is not concerned. Dragging the brush through her hair, Ashara arranges it to fall becomingly over her shoulders, dabbing stain onto her lips to make them full and red. She gazes upon her reflection, but it is not herself she sees. This woman is too sad, too plainly weary to be the woman Ned Stark fell in love with at Harrenhal; she is too beaten down to be the woman who sneaked from the Red Keep to meet her lover in Chataya's brothel.
Ashara does not know this woman.
The door to Ned's borrowed chamber is not barred; Ashara slips in silently, sliding the bar in place before moving towards the bed. The Lord of Winterfell lies naked on the bed, his clothing discarded on the floor, the windows all open and the bedclothes tangled at the foot of the bed. His back has scars now, a thin dribble of tissue at the small of his back with a thicker, more gnarled scar cutting across his shoulder; she traces a shining scar curved over his hip, feeling the warmth of his skin. He is as hot as the Dornish deserts, and she smiles at it; Wylla often complains that Jon sweats straight through his blankets and clothing, his body rebelling against the heat. She perches on the edge of the bed, bending to kiss the blade of his shoulder, her lips whisper soft; he makes a noise in his throat as her tongue slides across his skin, gathering the taste of salt, tracing the bumps of his spine. As she lies atop him, kissing the juncture where his neck meets his shoulder, she slips her hand beneath his body, over the softness of his stomach to where his cock grows hard.
You are not so different from Brandon, are you? she thinks uncharitably.
As her fingers brush the head of his cock, Ned suddenly twists, catching her off-guard, slamming her onto her back; it is not until she sees the wildness in his eyes Ashara realizes she has scared him, and Ned releases her immediately, gasping, “Ashara, I am sorry. I did not know - “
She reaches up, grasping his hair and attempting to pull him down for a kiss; when he does not budge, she arches up, nearly spilling out of her dress, pressing her lips firmly against his. The rasp of his beard against her face awakens the memory of their first kiss, and Ashara suddenly wants him with a ferocity she does not recognize, a hunger which has little to do with what she feels for the man he is now and far more about recapturing the man who blushed at a simple dance.
“Ashara, no,” he murmurs, twisting his face from hers, his hands catching her wrists to keep her from grabbing at him again. “Please stop.”
“Why?” she challenges, raising her knee to rub against his cock. “You want me.”
“We cannot - “
“We can.”
“I have a wife!” he bites out breathlessly, releasing her hands to grasp for the bedclothes to cover himself. “And you do not want this.”
“Don't tell me what I want!” she snaps, wrenching the night dress from her body, taking a peculiar pride in the way Ned's eyes fall to her breasts despite his protestations. “It is not like we have not done this before.”
“It was different,” Ned insists, deliberately looking away from her nude body. “Catelyn is a good woman, a good mother, and she does not deserve - “
“Mother?” Ashara echoes, all of the fight leaving her body. Hating the waver in her voice, she asks, “She had your child?”
“Her letter came shortly before yours to tell me of Robb's birth.”
“Robb.” A bitter bark of laughter slips past her lips. “Of course his name is Robb.”
“Ashara - “
Her sobs are harsh and loud, bursting from her chest with such violence, it makes her chest ache. She buries her face in her hands, feeling as young as Allyria as she realizes the last small victory she held – Ned's son – is no victory at all; Catelyn Tully has been given the life Ashara thought was hers, and now Ned will forget Jon the moment he is presented with his legitimate son. The swirl of emotions in her chest is as confusing as it is powerful; Ned has stood beside Robert Baratheon even after what happened to Elia, he killed Arthur, he forgot her as he married Catelyn Tully, but she does not want to be left again, even if it is by a man who has profoundly disappointed her.
Ned gathers a sheet, draping it around her shoulders, and, as she looks at him through her tears, she sees the boy from Harrenhal. Wiping at her tears with the back of her hand, she whimpers, “It all truly was for nothing.”
“No, it - “
“I watched the Mad King kill them,” she cuts in, pulling the sheet around her, feeling a hollowness inside her. “We all saw and did nothing to save them. Your father – Brandon - “
“We do not need to speak of this,” Ned assures her, his own voice roughening with emotion. “With all that has been lost, it does nothing to dwell upon it. What you did for Lyanna...”
“Arthur was going to take her and the baby to the Free Cities where they would be safe. He invited Jon and I to come.” Fiddling with the edge of the sheer, she whispers, “He was the greatest man in all Seven Kingdoms.”
“Tell me about him.”
It is the strangest way she has ever spent a night with a man. As she and Ned lie in the bed, she tells him tales of Arthur while he offers his own stories of Brandon and Lyanna; it is easier to speak of those who have fallen than of themselves, to acknowledge all which remains between them. Ashara talks herself hoarse as she describes the day Arthur was given Dawn, describes what it was like growing up with Elia and Oberyn, and, when Ned speaks with lingering affection about his sister scaling the walls of Winterfell like a spider, of Brandon teaching him to shoot a bow, Ashara understands he is as heartbroken as she is.
As exhaustion seeps into her body, Ashara's eyes dropping closed, she feels Ned's lips against her forehead before he whispers, “I know I have dishonored you and no words will never be enough, but I am glad we have Jon.”
“He looks so much like you,” she murmurs, half-asleep.
Ned chuckles softly. “And all I see in him is you.” His fingertips stroke back and forth across her upper arm, so soft she thinks she may be imagining the touch, when he declares, “He will always have a place at Winterfell. Whether or not he has my name, his blood is of the North, and he will always be welcome.”
His words rouse her, bring her back to the world; the absolute acceptance of Jon is something Ashara cannot guarantee their son. Allyn and her father know who fathered her son, and she cannot imagine they will allow her to stay at Starfall to raise the son of the man who slayed Arthur. She thinks of Oberyn's offer before Elia's death, to foster Jon at Sunspear and marry him to one of his daughters, but she wonders if he would be welcome there either, the son of a man who did not disavow a man who sneered over the murdered bodies of children. There is no place in Dorne for Ned Stark's son, not now, mayhaps not ever.
Ned sleeps heavily enough that he does not notice when she slips from the bed. Fetching a dressing gown from her chamber, Ashara hurries down the corridor to Jon's chamber, Wylla snoring in the bed alongside his cradle. She bends beside the woman, stirring her awake.
“My lady,” Wylla says, voice confused, “is something wrong?”
“Do you still wish to see the North?”
The sun is just starting to rise when Ashara exits the keep with Wylla, Jon in her arms. Ned and Howland Reed are packing their saddlebags, and, when Ned sees her, he stops, his face folding into a small smile at the sight of Jon. As Wylla goes towards the stables, Ashara easily hands Jon to Ned; Jon settles easily into his father's arms, and Ned softly sighs, “Good morning, my boy.”
It is a sword through the heart to hear such blatant affection in his voice, and Ashara irrationally wishes she could everything over, that she could go back to when Jon was first born and not waste time with him; Jon deserves to be loved and adored, and she feels unbearably guilty she ever deprived him of such a thing.
“Thank you for allowing me to say goodbye.”
Ashara shakes her head. “I am the one who is saying goodbye.”
“What?”
Folding her arms over her chest, Ashara explains, “When I first discovered I was pregnant, I kept him because he was the heir to House Stark. And while I know it is no longer an option, so long as he is in Dorne he will be thought of as your son and hated for it. With Elia gone, I have no place except Starfall, and, even if my father allows me to raise the son of a man who killed his child, it will not be a happy place. Jon deserves to grow up as we did: safe and happy, surrounded by other children. He will never have that here.”
Eyes widening with realization, Ned shakes his head. “It does not have to be like this. You are his mother - “
“And a poor one,” she interrupts. “I can scarcely draw myself from bed some days. As much as I love him, I resent him in equal measure. That is no way for a child to be raised.” Chin trembling despite herself, she pleads, “You must understand that this is the best thing for him. He and your other children will be siblings; they will love him and protect him, just as you will. Tell me you will.”
“A boy needs a mother.”
“A boy needs a father. He is more Snow than Sand; Jon belongs with you.”
She can see a thousand different emotions dance across his face, his eyes darting from Ashara to Jon and back again. Finally he asks, “You're certain this is what you want?”
“It is what Jon deserves,” she replies, sidestepping the truth that this is hardly what she wants, that she wants to see Jon grow to be a man as fine as Arthur was, wants to watch Ned teach him to hunt and ride. Circumstance has dictated Jon can only have one parent, and Ashara would rather it be the parent who can give him the happiest life possible.
He nods somberly as Wylla reemerges with a saddled mare. Ashara reaches for Jon, kisses his sweet smelling curls, enjoys the press of his soft, warm face against her throat for the last time. “I love you, sweet boy,” she whispers, kissing him one last time before handing him to Wylla, who begins the task of bundling him against the front of her body. Wiping a stray tear from the corner of her eye, she looks to Ned and says, “May I ask a final favor of you?”
“Anything.”
“Someday, when Jon asks about me, when you think he is old enough, tell him the truth of us. Tell him something sweet about me, even if it is a lie.” Tears welling in her eyes, she begs, “Promise me you will not let him think the worst of me.”
“I promise.” Cupping the side of her face, he repeats, “I promise.”
She watches the party depart until she can see them no longer, the horses disappearing in the morning light. Even as her body screams for her to chase them, to take Jon back and vow to do anything to care for him, Ashara knows this is for the best. Ned will be a good father, and Jon will grow to manhood alongside his siblings, able to have every privilege Ned's trueborn children will have.
This is the right thing, she tells herself.
Ashara wonders how often she will have to repeat the words before truly believing them.
“There is a man here to see you, my lady.”
Ashara looks up from the book she is reading to Allyria, genuinely puzzled as to who would be calling on her. With her father and Allyn returned to Starfall, it is rare that anyone seeks her out; most of her days are spent with Allyria, who is equally ignored, and she often wonders if this is how it is to be for the rest of her life.
“Did he give a name?”
“No, my lady, but he has a child with him.”
Hope swells sharply in her chest as she follows the servant to the solar where the man waits. She knows it is stupid and childish to think Ned has returned to her with Jon, that he has traveled a thousand leagues back to her after departing only weeks ago. And yet, when she enters the solar and finds her caller is too small to be Ned, the child too large to be Jon, disappointment still rushes through her veins.
“May I help you?”
When the man lifts his face, Ashara instantly recognizes him. Even beneath the ridiculous hair and changes to his face, she would know the Master of Whispers anywhere. “Hello, Lady Dayne.”
“What are you doing here? How dare you come here - “
“I have not come to upset you, Lady Dayne,” Varys rushes to assure her. “I have come to give you a gift, a gift for us all.”
“I want nothing from any of Robert Baratheon's men, least of all you,” she growls, turning on her heel to have Varys removed.
“You do not recognize the boy, Lady Dayne?” he calls, stilling her retreat. “He is older than when last you saw him, but he does look so much like his father.”
Ashara pauses, looking at the boy toddling about the floor. He is tall for his age, which she estimates to be younger than two, with fair skin; his dark hair is fine as down feathers, and, for a moment, she thinks Lord Varys has traveled all this way to have a jape at her expense.
And then she sees the boy's eyes.
“Oh my gods,” she breathes, sinking to her knees so she is eye level with the little boy. She sifts his hair through her fingers, sees the roots of his hair are silver, and Ashara nearly sobs as the boy smiles, touching her face and hair with little hands. “How?” is all she can manage.
“Princess Elia was a very smart woman. She knew if something were to happen to Aerys, her children would be at risk. Rhaenys was too old, too known by those at court, but it was a simple matter to switch a baby in its cradle. I told the princess that, when the time was right, I would bring him to you.”
“To me? Why? The Martells - “
“If a silver-haired child suddenly appears at the Water Gardens, how long do you think it would be until word reached King Robert? No, the boy must be hidden and hidden well until the time is right.”
“Right for what?”
“For him to take back what is his.” Varys looks as serious as he ever has as he declares, “What was done to the princesses was a travesty. I begged the king to keep the city locked to Tywin Lannister. I promised the princess I would bring the prince to you, and I have fulfilled that promise.”
“He will not be any better hidden here. You think people will not whisper if I suddenly there is a small boy at Starfall?”
Varys inclines his head. “And that is why you cannot remain here.”
“And where would I go?”
“A friend of House Targaryen resides in Pentos. He has offered to care for you and the prince until the next step is to be taken.”
Ashara traces the dainty features of Aegon's face, sweeping her finger down the bridge of his nose which is so like Elia's. “Is that where Viserys and the baby are?”
“No, the prince and princess are well-cared for by Ser Willem. You and Aegon would remain in Pentos until - “
“And what is this next step?” she pushes, getting to her feet. “You cannot expect me to do this all on your word.”
“Of course not. It is important that King Robert thinks there is no threat left to his reign. In a few years, word will reach King's Landing that Jon Connington has drunk himself to death. At that time, he will join you and Aegon, and the boy's true education can begin.” When Ashara says nothing, uncertain how much to trust the things he is saying, Varys adds, “This is what Princess Elia wanted. Do you not want to protect her son?”
It is not even a question; of course she does. From the moment she left King's Landing, all Ashara has thought of is Elia and her children, the failure which haunts her every moment. It will never alleviate the pain of losing Elia, of knowing what was done to her and little Rhaenys, but she is grateful Elia knew her son was safe.
“What will I have to do?”
It is a remarkably simple plan. Varys explains that, in order for this plan to work, Ashara Dayne must die. The idea of faking her death bothers her only because of Allyria, who has already lost so much in her short life, but Ashara knows there is no other way to safely spirit away Aegon to safety. She writes two letters that night, one for Allyria and one for her father, leaving them in what was once her mother's chambers in the Palestone Sword. Ashara stares out the window at the waves crashing against the cliffs, inhaling the scent of the Summer Sea before doing as Varys bid, tossing her slippers into the sea.
Forgive me, she silently asks of Allyria as she steals from Starfall, sneaking to the inn where Varys awaits with Aegon.
It is bizarre to catch her reflection in the looking glass after Varys dyes her hair. The dark waves she once took such pride in are now as pale as Arthur's hair, a tumble of white gold which would have made Elia laugh. As she winds it into a knot at the base of her skull, she sees Varys removing something from a pack, holding up the garment for her inspection. This time, Ashara does laugh, the idea so preposterous she can hardly believe it.
“A septa's robes? Surely there is another option.”
“Do you ever remember a passing septa's face? You are a beautiful woman, Lady Dayne; the less people are like to notice it, the better. Besides, who would believe Ashara Dayne to be a septa?”
The robes are damnably hot, itch terribly, and smell musty, but Ashara dons them, barely recognizing herself at all. As she holds Aegon against her as they approach the docks to board the ship bound for Pentos, Varys says, “You will need a new name.”
After a moment, Ashara decides, “Lemore. I shall be Lemore.”
Varys smiles sadly. “Safe travels, Septa Lemore.”
The only time Ashara ventures from her cabin on The Cinnamon Wind is when they sail past Dorne. Carrying Aegon up to the deck, she points to the towers of Sunspear and whispers, “That is your mother's home. You are a Prince of Dorne, the blood of the dragon, and some day men will cheer for your return. And when you return, my son will be the Lord Commander of your kingsguard, and never will you fear when Jon Snow is at your back.”
It is just a story now, but one day it will be true. Ashara will do anything to make it true.
But for now, she is Septa Lemore, a mother to no one, and Pentos awaits.