She died never knowing that he loved her. He lived on never realising she loved him back. When war came to Westeros, fate and circumstance dictated that their paths part irrevocably. A two part story about the Battle of Trident and Sack of King's Landing told from the view point of Ashara Dayne and Ser Barristan Selmy.
When the Last Star Falls. Part One.
"As flies to wanton boys are we to the Gods;
They kill us for their sport."
(Shakespeare. King Lear)
Chaos reigned as the battle built in pitch. Generals desperately tried to get their troops in order, but their bellowed commands were lost among the deafening noise of a war machine in full swing. Within minutes of the mounted knights charging their horses into the Trident, their corpses were banking up the fork and the waters gushed red with their blood. The air was filled with the sound of death blows meeting their target; the sickening crunch of swords, maces and warhammers crushing armour and skulls. Cries of the wounded were drowned out as the dying men were dragged down beneath the current, reducing their last words to a formless gurgle lost among the churning waters. All the while, volley after volley of arrows rained down on them from all sides. Death came from all quarters; the ravenous Stranger gorging his fill on the flower of Westerosi chivalry.
It was fighting on a scale Ser Barristan had not seen since the War of the Ninepenny Kings and even that had ended with him defeating Maelys the Monstrous in single combat. This was something different. This was a frenzy of killing through which he ploughed his Destrier, swinging his sword almost blindly as he made for the rebel forces. As soon as his horse plunged into the river, water had flooded his armour and rendered it more cumbersome than ever. If he fell, he would drown within moments.
Experienced enough to block such thoughts from his mind, he raised his sword and surged forwards. His horse reared dangerously as they entered the press of the fighting, where the battle was at its thickest. Still he cut a path through the rebel forces, parrying blows aimed at him and destroying the enemy by the cutting the legs from under the horses, sending them crashing into the treacherous waters. Without the luxury of time to think, he could only struggle to return to Prince Rhaegar's side, but he had not seen the Prince for almost a half hour now.
It was as he broke through Baratheon's left flank that he noticed the niggling sting in his thigh. Every time the cold waters splashed against it, it stung all over again. Irritably, he pounded at it with one gauntleted hand, only for it to hit the shaft of a quarrel protruding from between the chinks in his armour. The sight of it made him curse aloud, a momentary distraction in which a hammer smashed into the back plate of his armour, denting it inwards so that he could no longer breathe properly. The blow sent him reeling sideways in the saddle, almost unseating him and sending him to his death. But he grabbed the reins, dropping his sword in the process and managed to regain his balance.
He rounded the fork, defenceless and vulnerable without his sword. Only his shield now protected him from the arrows raining down and the swords slashing through the air. But as he rounded the bend in the river, dodging through the parrying fighters, he saw a sight that offered a glimmer of hope. Rhaegar was still mounted, his black enamelled armour glittering with rubies in the form of the three headed dragon. His sword was raised, ready for the kill as the towering youth in an antlered helm came charging through the tidal waters.
Hope died in him, he had to look away as the rebel leader brought the hammer crashing down so hard it knocked the gems of Rhaegar's armour. For one drawn out moment, it seemed as if time had stood still while Rhaegar fell backwards, sliding almost serenely into the waters with blood gushing from the chinks in his fluted armour.
"Lyanna," he had whispered as he fell. So close Ser Barristan thought he might be able to catch him. From years of bitter experience he knew the Prince was dead before he even hit the water.
Defeated and leaderless, all the royal army could do was scatter. But Ser Barristan's injury was building to an agonising burning and his dented breastplate was crushing his ribs. All he could do was dig his spurs into the beast's flanks to get himself back on dry land. He knew it was all over as a roar of victory from the rebel forces filled the air, stilling the remaining fighters. The Direwolves of House Stark and the Stags of House Baratheon united in triumph.
Ser Barristan could have laughed, had he not been losing consciousness. They're looking for Lyanna. Do they really think she was abducted? He wanted to look into Eddard Stark's eyes as he told him where his sainted sister was and how she came to be there. Only he realised, too late, that he wouldn't get the chance. He didn't even know he was falling until he hit the ground. His body connected with the churned up mud, bashing his breastplate in even more and painfully jolting the quarrel that was still embedded in his thigh. Now out of the water, his blood spilled hotly inside the plate metal that was slowly crushing him. To compound matters, he was dimly away of his horse wandering off and leaving him all alone.
'Play dead,' he thought to himself as he crawled among a cluster of corpses, searching for somewhere to lay down. He wouldn't have to play for long, he inwardly added. He had neither strength nor distance left to run. All he could do was lie there and wait for it all to be over. His visor was still down, shielding his face from the early summer sun. To give himself even a fighting chance at survival, he had to get the quarrel out of his thigh. But if so much as touched it, it sent shockwaves of pain coursing through his failing body.
Shaking off a gauntlet, he wrapped his freed hand around the broken shaft. To distract himself from the pain, he mapped the local area in his head. He could flee north and seek sanctuary at the Isle of Faces. Or Harrenhal. While planning his notional escape, he wrenched the quarrel free, biting his lip so hard it drew more blood. Anything to prevent himself screaming out in agony. But once it was done, it was done and the pain would recede.
Ashara. As he lay there among the dead, her face swam before his eyes. While the pain slowly washed away, he conjured her in his mind's eye and held on to those images as though there were a life raft bearing him to safety.
It wasn't so far from the Trident that the tourney of Harrenhal took place; where Ashara gave him her silk favour before he faced Rhaegar in the lists. Rhaegar won, but he still had the favours tied around his wrist. He could feel them now, digging into his skin. It was there that he decided he was going to forsake his vows to the Kingsguard to be with her. Idly, his mind wandered into a 'what if' scenario. What if he had? Where would they be, instead of where they really were? They could have been welcoming their first born and basking in the Dornish sun. Instead, he did his duty and now lay dying and alone on the muddy banks of the Trident. That's where duty gets you. But at least he could say he did the right thing.
Memories formed a mocking masquerade, parading through his head as he thought back over the year of false spring. It was all very well dreaming of what life could have held, but he had never even told Ashara how he felt. How many times had he been on the brink? How many times had he rehearsed the speech, planned the moment, or prepared a special place under the moonlight where he would bare his soul? He had lost count and now his chance was gone.
Once, when the Princess was born and Elia hovered between life and death, Rhaegar had given him a bouquet of flowers to deliver to her. Wildflowers and roses picked from the gardens at Dragonstone. He walked through the gardens and picked one more: a pink rose in full bloom, before heading to the Queen's apartments. Ashara had answered and he remembered every detail still. He recalled the gown she wore. A blue so pale it was almost grey. Her dark hair braided, falling over her right shoulder and the loose strands that framed her beautiful face. And always those haunting lilac eyes.
"These are for the Princess Elia," he said, thrusting the flowers into her hands. "But this is for you."
She cradled the bouquet in the crook of her right arm and took the single rose in the fingers of her left hand. A smile played slowly across her lips as she breathed in its scent with an understated relish. Her smile made his heart race.
"From who?" she asked, meeting his gaze again.
He responded with what he hoped was an enigmatic smile. "That would be telling," he had replied, teasingly.
Had she guessed that it was from him? It was the last thing left to bring him some small comfort as his grip on consciousness finally expired. Ser Barristan let himself slip into the warm darkness, still recalling those haunting lilac eyes.
Their defeat did not seem real to Ashara until the first wounded royal soldiers made it back to King's Landing. The first to arrive were the ones strong enough to make the southward journey in just a few short days. The young and the healthy, unhurt by the fighting. Some dark part of her wondered whether they were deserters. It was her practical side that informed her now was not the time for principles.
After them came the first of the walking wounded. Men with blood soiled bandages wrapped around various limbs, or round their heads. Some had lost eyes; others limbs. A few still had quarrels from crossbows embedded in their bodies. The slowest stragglers were the ones with terrifying injuries she didn't think any man could survive. Many went on to prove her point by expiring on the castle steps, as though they had given up hope just as they reached their final sanctuary.
As each one passed through the gates, she rushed to the window to see if Ser Barristan was with them. She had grabbed one or two of the healthier ones, shaking them by the shoulders and demanding to know. Was he dead? Alive? Injured? None of them knew. Some were beyond speech, half-mad from the trauma of the endless fighting.
All the while, as she tarried at the capital, she knew the rebel forces would be closing in on them. They would come and sack the city any day now. All time was borrowed time and by the end of the first week following Rhaegar's death, she was once more at Elia's side. Aerys had refused to let her and the children flee to safety at Dragonstone, the place where Rhaegar had tried to send them long before the battle.
Listless and exhausted, the Princess lay in her bed with barely enough strength to cradle Aegon. Rhaenys, the little princess, shook and sobbed on her father's bed. Ashara's heart broke for her. For them all. She didn't think Elia had noticed her arrival, but slowly her dark eyes met Ashara's. There was no more grief there. No anger nor even despair. Although her body was weak and ravaged by the deprivations of conflict, her voice and her expression was the strongest Ashara had seen in her for years.
"You must go, Ashara," she said. "The Lannisters have betrayed us-"
"I'm not leaving you!" Ashara cut over her.
"You must," Elia insisted, trying to sit up in bed.
Outside, the bells had started to toll. People were running and shouting in blind panic. Ashara thought of the wildfire rigged up around Blackwater Bay – it would be enough to stop invading ships. But if the Lannisters had turned, then they were already inside the castle to open the gates to land troops.
"The baby," said Elia, pushing down the infant's swaddling blankets.
Ashara barely glanced at him before falling on her knees at Elia's bedside. "Come with me. This place is in chaos and Aerys couldn't stop you even if he wanted. So come, run with me now and we might just make it. Doran and Oberyn will protect you!"
Elia raised a sad smile. "Even if I made it, they would never stop hunting us. Now look at my baby."
Ashara wanted to scream in frustration, but humoured the princess and glanced down at Aegon.
"He's very bonny, your grace," she said, then looked again. "That's not Aegon."
Elia's smile widened and she nodded weakly to a bundle of rags in the corner of the room from which a kicking baby's leg was now visible. But when she looked back at Ashara, there was only a longing in her dark eyes.
"If I stay, they will kill us all never knowing that you took my son to safety," she explained. "They won't even think to look for him; no one will know. When the time is right, he can rise again. If you do this for me, then the Targaryens will not have been defeated. But if I go with you, it will be obvious. Please, Ashara, promise me. Promise me you will do this?"
Frustration gave way to heartbreak, tears slipping down Ashara's face as she clasped Elia's free hand in her own. There was no time to argue and this way was the only way.
"I promise," she choked, glancing briefly at Rhaenys. "But what about-"
"It's too late. They all know her," Elia said, second guessing where she was going.
A hue and a cry was raised outside, the sound of doors being kicked in farther down the corridor. Both women whipped around towards the source of the commotion just as a female screamed, a chilling sound cut off mid flow as though her throat had been cut. Now it was happening. Ashara's heartbeat raced, her mouth running dry with fear. Suddenly, she could not say anything as straight as a stick.
"Go now!" Elia implored. "Just go!"
Before leaving, Ashara flung her arms around Elia's neck, pressing a firm kiss against her cheek.
"Through this act you've won this war," she said, firmly. "No matter what happens, you've won already."
There was no time left for a reply. Ashara got to her feet and hitched the hems of her skirts up as she grabbed the real Aegon from his bundle of rags. She burst through the connecting door to the ladies chambers to snatch what possessions she could in just a few short seconds. A bag that was already packed and a book from her bedside table. But that was all.
"This way!"
She spun round at the sound of the voice. A man in a gaoler's uniform was standing by a secret tunnel she never knew existed. His hood was drawn low over his face and even as he reached for her bag she could not see his face. All she could do was follow him through the secret tunnels, letting him lead the way with a lantern. This way and that, they turned. She couldn't keep up with where they were going. All the while, she clutched Aegon to her chest and sent up silent prayers of thanks that the babe was silent.
"Who are you?" she asked.
It wasn't until they emerged inside a brothel that the man revealed himself. He lowered his hood back, revealing himself to be the Master of Whispers.
"Varys!" she gasped, tightening her grip on Aegon.
"Sh!" he said, pressing a finger to his lips. "The Lannisters scaled Maegor's Holdfast just as we escaped, my lady. Your Princess, her daughter and that unfortunate infant are probably already dead. I must return and make terms with the usurper, whatever happens. But know I am loyal to the Targaryens. Always."
Ashara's head was in a whirl, too much so to be taking pledges of fealty. "That's very moving, but what now?" She had to think and it was hard in a brothel. Half-naked women were passing from room to room, readying themselves for the big business that was heading their way. They will earn a fortune from the soldiers. She had to answer her own question. "I'm taking him to Starfall for now. But he can't stay there forever."
"I will come for him," replied Varys. "I will sort something out, I assure you. But please, follow me to the ship now."
It was easier than she thought. Amidst the chaos of the invading army, they were able to slip onto a merchant vessel under the guise of a woman being evacuated with her infant daughter. Varys made sure the Bravosi captain was well paid and even helped settle her in the cabin. If she looked from the portal window, she could see smoke rising from the Red Keep already. The sight almost brought her to tears again.
"Varys," she said, catching him before he could leave. "Have you heard any news of Ser Barristan Selmy?"
If anyone knew, Varys would. But he only shook his head, the apologetic look on his face telling her all she needed to know. "I'm sorry, my lady. Ser Barristan was fighting alongside the Prince; that's all I know. I know Selmy well enough to conclude he would have died at the Prince's side rather than bend the knee to a usurper."
Once they set sail, Ashara left the sleeping prince in their cabin and stood on the decks of the ship. The thin trail of smoke that had been leaking from the Red Keep now billowed over the whole city, clouding and rolling over the restless bay. They would all be dead now. Elia; Rhaenys; the unknown infant who unwittingly saved a dynasty. All the injured soldiers would be dead too.
She remembered the book she rescued from her chamber. It was in the bag over her shoulder now, and when she retrieved it she opened it in the middle. A pale pink rose had been pressed in the centre pages. It was flat and darker now, but she closed her eyes and remembered the Knight who gave it to her. He had a whole bouquet, sent by Rhaegar to Elia after the birth of the little Princess.
"But this one is for you," he had said, holding out the single pink rose.
Its scent was long gone, but Ashara held it to her nose and breathed it in again anyway. Her memory supplied the rest. She smiled as the ship sailed out into Blackwater Bay, taking her far away.
"From who?" she had asked, hoping it was him. Hoping he would say something.
Instead, he had flashed her that enigmatic smile. "That would be telling," he said, laughter in his voice.
But Ser Barristan was Kingsguard. She knew that. Honour was what defined them. Honour and duty forged their path in life. And their paths broke off, always in different directions. A single tear tracked down her cheek, glistening in the setting sun, as she opened her eyes again. Kings Landing was aflame. Their world reduced to embers and ash. What would come in its place? It chilled her to imagine it.
She walked to the prow of the ship, kissed the rose and let it slip into the seas. She watched as it whispered silently beneath the waves.
TBC
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