Disclaimer – This fanfiction was not written by me; it belongs to the user William Dellinger on alternatehistory, by publishing it here I only intend to bring it to a wider audience and make it available for offline reading. I do not claim any ownership of the content.
Rhaegar XXXII
12; 275 AC
Starfall
We reined in our mounts, pulling them off to the side of the firm, well-traveled road. We were nearly there; less than a mile from the castle Starfall and ten miles into the sprawling city of Starfall. A mile away from the pomp and ceremony my position as prince demanded of me, a mile away from me being the prince again. There would be lords and ladies, all with their hidden secrets and plots, pushing their girl children toward me like a sack of potatoes I might like to have for the evening. Servants bowing and scraping and always at my elbow, ready to refill my cup or take my plate or wipe my mouth or wipe my ass if they thought I desired it. Gods knew I desired none of it.
The last forty days had been a reminder of how good life could be, free from the responsibility of office and the soul-crushing cynicism I needed to survive. The trees held no plots, the fields and rivers let me be. There was hope in the open air, liberty and peace. Ahead of me was shackles; behind me, my eternal freedom.
Jenny was another part of that freedom; the freedom to love and marry for that love. There would be no shortage of political marriage offers from the Dornish. I expected Doran or his mother, Princess Moria, to broach the subject once we reached Sunspear. I wouldn't be surprised if Lord Anton offered his sister, Ashara, already regarded the most beautiful woman in Westeros, to me in the next few days. And of course, there would be the offers of a single night, a bedwarmer, those lords and ladies that would have me deflower their daughters in the hope of a child, a link to the royal family they could exploit. It sickened me, turned my stomach.
Jenny was my choice, goddammit. My freedom. My love.
It was nearly dark, the sun setting over the Red Mountains and turning the sky a sea of deep blues and purples, blackness chasing them to the horizon. The stars were coming out, showing a deep vein of starlight running concurrent with the edge of the world, the rest of the galaxy showcased for our pleasure. No light pollution, no city smog covering up the incredible sight above us. Just the sky, just the stars.
Arthur nudged me when I didn't say anything, anxious to be home now that it was within sight. He hadn't shown much in the way of homesickness, being one part stoicism and one part uncertainty of what would await him there, but he was past that now, ready to see his sisters and his brother again. I looked over my other shoulder to find Jon, sitting uncomfortably in his saddle, ready to be off the road as well.
Arthur coughed through the road dust and wet his lips with his tongue. "They'll know we're close. Outriders have already told Anton, I'm sure. And they've been able to see us from the Palesword Tower for miles already," he said, pointing. "There's a guard with a Myrish glass posted there at all times. Anton will no doubt be out in the courtyard to greet us. Or greet you, at least," he said, almost as a warning. "I suppose that Ashara and Allyria will be there as well. And if Anton has gathered his bannermen and the local lords, they will be there."
The more he talked, the more I wanted to run. Disappear into the red dunes and make my way back to King's Landing and Jenny, then run to Essos. To hell with the plot, the king, Lord Tywin, and the Others. I didn't want any of this.
I grit my teeth and stepped down from my saddle. "If they're expecting a prince, we might as well give them one." I removed my rough road cloak from its pin on my shoulder and unfolded my heavier, more expensive one from the saddlebag. It was a rich purple velvet, matching my eyes, and transformed my dark tunic and breeches from road weary cloth to something approaching acceptability. I splashed some water from my canteen on my face, scrubbing my skin to remove the caked-on dust and grime. After a moment, Arthur dismounted and did the same, donning his white cloak. Had he worn it on the road, it would have been a deep brown by now, as well as having alerted every person we passed as to who I was.
Jon, for his part, stayed in the saddle. "If I get down, I'm not getting back up," he said sardonically. "Plus, I'm a Stormlander. They expect me to be dirty and uncouth."
Arthur snorted. "Well, we wouldn't want to disappoint, would we?" he asked dryly.
I smiled against my will. This place sucked, and I hated every moment of every dog and pony show I was forced into. But there were a few things that made it a little better.
We made our way through the eastern part of the city that surrounded the castle. This side, called Eastside by its inhabitants, was smaller than its counterpart, called Westside. The castle was built upon an island in the middle of the Torentine with two bridges spanning the river in either direction. Here, at the mouth of the Torentine, the mighty river stretched for some three thousand spans, the island very nearly in the exact center of the banks. The stone bridge came into view as we neared, fifteen spans wide and five hundred in length. It looked solid, but it was a long way down into the water. I caught Jon eyeing the stonework somewhat dubiously and I fought to keep from doing the same.
At perhaps a hundred spans from the outer gate of the castle, we could hear a cry go up from the other side, seeing a procession of colorful robes and cheering voices announcing our arrival. I fought the overwhelming urge to roll my eyes out of respect for Arthur. It wouldn't do to have a prince of the realm dishonor one of his only friends' families.
The way was lined with onlookers, all varying degrees of nobility by the look of them. Some were dressed in their finest and fought to keep it clean in the dirt just off the paved stone, while others wore it lazily, content in the knowledge they had another tunic or robe just as fine somewhere in their mansions.
Atop the massive marble stairs leading into the castle proper was an older, broader, shorter Arthur, that I could only assume to be his elder brother and the Lord of Starfall. Arthur had told me as much about him as he could, having left four years before. Anton Dayne always placed his house and family first, whatever his personal feelings were. As a boy, he had carried his position as heir over Arthur, despite Arthur being the better swordsman and jouster. He was sharp and clever, thoughtful, but indomitable once a decision was made. He was not one to beg or borrow, and had a prideful streak as wide as the Torentine. I felt Arthur was more than a touch intimidated by the man before me, the year difference between them more pronounced when Arthur had left than now.
A young girl of five or so stood suspiciously still next to Anton Dayne, the kind of stillness only found in children who had been warned not to run about. Arthur's youngest sister, carrying the same coloring, blonde on pale skin, prone to burning rather than tanning. Her cheeks were sun-kissed and her legs were strong, a child who ran outside with the other children. She looked at me and smiled widely, exposing some missing teeth, her innocence meeting her sincerity and having a field day.
That left another sister, and I felt overwhelming curiosity: what would the most beautiful woman in Westeros look like?
I scanned the welcoming party until I found her. Ashara was, quite simply, breathtakingly beautiful, stolen from the night sky overhead. Her hair was the color of the deep darkness, raven black and coiled in a long, lazy twist. Her sad eyes were the same deep purple as the twilight, her lips the red that bled over the mountains, the last cry of the light. Her skin was the same brilliant, pale white of a star, luminous and illuminating despite the darkness. High cheekbones and a small chin forced her face into a haunting and haunted expression. She was slight, her breasts high on her chest, more than a handful on her slight frame, tapering down to a trim, hard waist and rounded hips. I caught a flash of pale skin, paler still than that of her face, when she moved, her long leg sneaking away from the pale purple dress she wore.
She seemed mournful, and I felt the urge to run to her. Her eyes were intelligent and thoughtful, calculating, sizing me up. Our eyes met and there was a spark of something there, though I couldn't tell you what it was. She held my gaze for more than a moment, her purple eyes laughing at some private jape and her perfect mouth curling into what could have been a smile. Her eyes slid to Arthur, and I saw pride, and love, and a dozen other emotions at the long-gone brother. With the look of love in her eyes, she grew a hundred times more beautiful, a thousand times more intoxicating.
This. This was the woman that could make even Ned Stark forget his honor.
Jon VIII
12; 275 AC
Starfall
The ceremony was unlike anything Jon could have expected. Once the pleasantries were exchanged, all those assembled were led into the great hall of Starfall. No horns or fanfare; indeed, a solemn, quiet experience. Two long tables lay on either side of the great hall, fitting half a hundred on each side, while a third table ran across the ends of the other two, forming a straight horseshoe. The tables were already set, the benches pushed beneath. Plates were already placed, next to the eating utensils and empty glasses, while the floral arrangements and carved wooden statues were set in the middle of each of the long tables. Everyone stood, even the elder lords and ladies with the aids of canes or a strong arm to latch on to.
Anton Dayne stood in the middle of the three tables, the greatsword Dawn in his hands, point downward into the stone floor. It was even larger than Jon had imagined, fully five feet from hilt to point, the milky white blade said to be forged from a fallen star. It was the same sword carried by many of the greatest knights in the history of Westeros, all called the Sword of the Morning. There were other famous swords in Westeros; the Starks had their Ice of Valyrian steel, the Tarlys their Heartsbane, the Lannisters their lost Brightroar. But none so famous as this.
Arthur knelt before his brother, his head down in forbearance, his white cloak pulled around him and covering his body. The lords and ladies were arranged on the outside of the tables in order of their status; the Daynes of High Hermitage, the Blackmonts, the Qorgyles, the Ullers, the Manwoodys, plus another dozen minor nobility of Starfall, the descendants of second and third Dayne sons who had not married into the other Houses, nor formed their own cadet branches. Some of the wealthier merchants of Starfall were there as well, though far from the cross table.
Jon stood near the Daynes as Arthur's friend and companion, Rhaegar beside him. Ashara Dayne stood on Rhaegar's other side, unlikely to be an accident. The Daynes were a well-respected house, powerful within Dorne, but it was simply too much of a gulf between the heir to the throne and the daughter of a secondary house of Dorne. In the Reach, perhaps, with House Hightower or Florent; those houses were powerful enough in their regions to make a successful match. But the Martells had a firm control over their territory and undermining their authority was asking for trouble. No, Rhaegar would have to marry and marry well, use his alliance like a hammer to bend the kingdoms of Westeros to his will.
Jon thought the girl was pretty enough, and likely deserved better than married off to some crag-faced Uller or Qorgyle. But Rhaegar needed a Queen.
Only the flickering of the torches lining the walls interrupted the silence as Lord Anton raised Dawn above his head, showing the blade to the gathered crowd. Jon had expected an exchange of vows, similar to those of knighthood or the Kingsguard vows, but no such thing occurred here. Lord Anton deftly reversed the blade and offered it to the still-kneeling Arthur, head bowed over the pommel, blade resting in the crook of his arm.
Arthur rose without a sound and reached out to hold the greatsword in his hand. For a moment, both brothers held the sword, one by the blade and one by the hilt. Lord Anton raised his head and whispered in a voice meant only for Arthur. "Dawn is yours. I have merely carried it a while."
Arthur whispered back in the same low voice. "Dawn is mine. I thank you for being its steward."
"You are the Sword of the Morning."
"I am the Sword of the Morning."
Arthur V
12; 275 AC
Starfall
Arthur looked to the sword by his side. It was far too long to belt on, even for Arthur's six-foot frame; he would have to carry it slung over his shoulder, or resting there. Too long to draw from the saddle as well. Could use the damned thing as a lance, as big as it was. Or spit a full-grown boar from snout to asshole with it. Nearly a dozen other uses for it, all except fighting with it. Greatswords were absolute bastards when it came to fighting, the length and weight leaving one open to knives or daggers if an opponent got close enough. Only a Valyrian steel greatsword was worth much, the blade being lighter and more agile, at least enough to properly parry. The ore from which Dawn was forged was similar to Valyrian steel, nearly as light, but different as well. It would take months, if not years, of practice before Arthur could wield the blade in an even match.
The feast that followed the ceremony was matched only by the list of attendees. Every person of stature was there in the great hall of Starfall. Even Princess Moria Martell had sent a raven to congratulate him on being named Sword of the Morning, as well as member of the Kingsguard. Merchants announced they would name their next son after him, while the lower nobility introduced their daughters to him. Not in such a way as to be uncouth or unchivalrous, of course; but the meaning was clear. As if the brother to the Lord of Starfall could marry so far down in the pecking order, or even if a member of the Kingsguard could marry at all. Ah, but marriage was not the only thing being offered.
The oath of the Kingsguard was a stringent one, an ironclad vow to serve and protect the king and his blood, to forsake all lands and titles and all thoughts of power or children or love. There were members who sidestepped the word of the vows, while maintaining the spirit; Prince Lewyn kept a woman in the city that he visited at times, though he kept his excursions to himself, while the others looked the other way.
Arthur looked to his left at his brother. Anton's face was tight, though polite; he hated the wastefulness of grand feasts, no doubt counting the coppers in his head of every plate of food and cup of wine in the hall. Rhaegar sat to his other side, eating absently, engaged in conversation with Ashara, who sat beside him. Anton was ambitious, for himself and for the family, but this was a leap, even for him. Ashara would make a fine Queen, of that he had no doubt, and their children would be more beautiful than even the dragonlords of Old Valyria. But she would offer no strong alliance to stabilize the kingdoms, and might even antagonize the Martells, who could see it as an undercut to their authority. A Dornish Queen, even with Ashara's stony Dornish looks, might set the realm on edge. With the number of eligible daughters of Great Houses, not choosing one was every bit as dangerous as choosing one.
On the other hand, Rhaegar seemed quite taken with Ashara. Arthur had not seen her since she was but a young waif of a girl, and Anton's ravens had done her no justice. Words themselves could not describe her beauty, though Rhaegar, with his skill in pen and ink, might have been able to approach it. Her wit and laughter could bring even the most devilish of men to her hand, the way a falconer calls his charge.
Arthur looked to the sword by his side a second time. It was heavier than he'd imagined, though it might have been the weight of so many years and so many men. Rhaegar would understand; Arthur saw in his friend's eyes what it meant to bear an unwanted responsibility. Or, at least to be ambivalent toward that responsibility. Arthur would talk with him that night, learn how Rhaegar dealt with being a prince and not wanting to be a prince. But, then again, Arthur already knew how Rhaegar dealt with it.
Rhaegar was halfway gone already, gone to another corner of the world with his paramour. Arthur couldn't prove it one way or another, but he knew Rhaegar better than anyone. It was the sort of change come over him that no one else would have noticed, not even Jon. Jon knew Rhaegar as well as Arthur, could read his moods, read his mind even. But Jon saw Rhaegar through a particular lens, one that left him blinded to certain things. Jon saw the playhouse, the mummers, even the girl, as temporary, something for Rhaegar to pass the time with until it the day he became king. But Arthur saw what Rhaegar wanted to hide, heard the way he spoke of freedom, saw the way he looked to the forest and the hills.
It would have to be Essos. There was nowhere in Westeros for Rhaegar to hide himself and his mistress, and in Essos he could blend in with the other remnants of Old Valyria. Some place small enough to not attract any attention.
The question was, whether or not to convince him to stay. He would make a fine king; perhaps the best since Aegon V or Daeron II. He was good and honest and clever, a man to lead the court, lead the army, lead the people. Arthur could recall how loudly the crowd at Driftmark had cheered their prince when he stepped forward in the melee, or how loudly the audience at the Globe cheered one of his plays. Or the calm, flinty iron in his voice when he tricked Velaryon into revealing his grand conspiracy in front of the Hand, the small council, and two of the Kingsguard.
But Rhaegar deserved to live his own life as he saw fit, as did every man born.
Arthur looked to the sword by his side a third time. There were no vows for the Sword of the Morning, no oaths to swear by, no promises made. Dawn was a tool to be used however he saw fit. Should he die, the Sword would be returned to Starfall to await the next Dayne worthy to be called Sword of the Morning.
The realm needed Rhaegar, but Rhaegar needed to stay of his own free will. No coercion, no guilt, no long speeches of honor and loyalty. It had to be Rhaegar's decision to stay.
Ashara I
12; 275 AC
Starfall
Ashara slipped down into the cool sheets of her bed, only covering half her body from the heat of the desert. The land around Starfall was cooler than most of its territory, due to the river and the coastal breeze, but the land still soaked in the sun's heat from the day and hoarded it at night. There were precious few cold nights in Starfall and she longed for another, a break from the cloying heat of Dorne. Somewhere in the North, perhaps, where snow fell and winter came. She longed for snow, to feel it on her bare skin, falling into piles of it. There were tales of snowstorms leaving whiteness stacked above a tall man's head; she doubted their authenticity, but she could still dream.
She heard footsteps outside her door and could tell from the sound who's they were. A knock followed a moment later and she told her brother to enter, sliding up in the bed to sit on its edge.
Anton came into the room as the Lord of Starfall, but she would always know him as her eldest brother who had once punched a boy twice his size for calling her a name.
He remained standing, arms folded, still dressed in his feasting clothes. "Well?"
Ashara smiled. Anton was ever one for being pointed. "He truly cares for our brother. Not just as a sworn sword, but as a friend," she said, remembering the way the prince had looked to Arthur for companionship. "And Arthur feels the same for the prince. You made a good choice for Dawn," Ashara said, knowing Anton's feelings on the subject.
Anton had always wanted Dawn, would stare at its milky-white blade for hours by torchlight. His fingers itched to take it, to belt it on and be the Sword of the Morning he always dreamed of being. But he never did, though it was his right to name himself its wielder if he so chose. No one would have said a word, not even Arthur, the younger brother who wanted the sword as badly, even if he did not always know it. Anton had spent hours every morning with every available man in the sight of the Palesword Tower, working to become better than the brother he had sent away. Every day was spent in pursuit of being worthy to carry Dawn, the only thing Anton had ever truly wanted, more so than land or power or a woman. Dawn was everything. And yet, when word came from the capitol of the younger Dayne and his prowess with a sword, then his appointment to the Kingsguard, the elite of all Westeros, Anton had wasted no time in sending the raven to Arthur. That was the kind of man he was; a man of honor.
"And the prince?" he asked, betraying no notion of giving away what he had once coveted.
Ashara smiled half-bashfully. "He is everything a woman could want in a man. Heir to the realm, a good house and family. Handsome. Charming, when he chooses to be. Intelligent and witty." Her face fell for a second, growing wistful. "There is a tragedy around him, a sadness only tempered when he is with Arthur or the Stormlander lord. He carries it like a shield. Still," she said, her smile returning, "there will be a great many maidens and ladies fighting over him when he goes looking for a wife."
Anton regarded her for a moment, waiting for her to elaborate. "And will you be among them?"
"No," was her simple answer, though Anton's silence demanded more. "In another time, another place, perhaps. Our brother loves him, and so I love him for that, but he is not the man I will marry. Besides," she said, a trace of disappointment in her voice, "his heart belongs to another, brother mine. I know better than intrude on another's territory."
Anton frowned regretfully. "I should have sent you to King's Landing with Arthur. You could have been there from the beginning."
Ashara's eyes blazed for a moment. "I will marry whom I choose, and when I choose, and at no one's bidding but my own."
Anton never smiled much, but on the rare occasions he did, it was usually at Ashara's stubbornness. "But of course. I long for the day when you find a man that can temper that willful hide of yours. I would pay to see it," he said, rubbing his chin. "Oh, I would pay very much to see it."
Ashara threw her pillow at the Lord of Starfall, who caught it and threw it back at her, then slipped out the door before she could ready another missile. She lay back into the bed and fell asleep dreaming of snow.