The next 'present' chapter will pick up right where this one leaves off, where the after effects of the Rebellion on Starfall will be further explored.
Every night he heard the dogs howling.
Arthur kept to his fire and honed his scavenged sword. They were following him.
The Dornish nights were as cold as the days were hot and it was a two day walk from Fowler lands to the Torrentine. The sand would trap warmth for the first few evening hours, but once the moon was above him any memory of the sun was gone. Wind would blast across the open expanses of desert, leaving Arthur to huddle around what meager flame he'd made. There was little in the Red Mountains to burn, so he would scavenge what he could throughout the day as he walked and then each night he would dig a hole and build his fire in it. It would sometimes burn out before morning, leaving Arthur to sit in the cold, but not utter darkness. There were rarely clouds in Dorne's sky and so he saw by the light of the stars and the moon.
He didn't burn the harp. It would've made sense to burn the harp. It had no value beyond Arthur's sentimental connection to it. And yet he did not.
It was one night after the fire had died and the sun had not yet risen that the dogs came for him.
He heard them before he saw them. A low growl out of the dark that put his throat into his stomach. Arthur stood, sword in hand.
They were at first shadows to him. And then the first of the creatures slinked out of the dark. Short-haired and long of body. Made lean but strong by their time in the desert. Wild dogs were something of a problem in Dorne. How many unfortunate travelers had been in his exact position before?
Arthur slowly stepped around, taking stock of his situation. He was out on the sands, between mountains, where there was nowhere for him to get to high ground.
The dogs circled him, growling low. Five in total.
"Come on…"
He grabbed a handful of sand and flung it at one of the dogs. It snarled at him, gnashing teeth.
"Come on!" He shouted and pounded a fist to his chest. "Come on!"
The dog snarled again and ran at him, darting low and then sprung up at him.. Arthur caught it by the throat, arrested its movement so suddenly that it swung in the air. The dog thrashed in his hand, slobber flying, paws scraping him in an attempt to escape, but his grip was iron. Its beady eyes were pitiless gold and the animal stared at him with unmitigated hunger and hatred. Arthur effortlessly pressed the flailing creature to his side and, with a sharp twist to its neck, killed it.
He threw its body to the sand with a thud. The remaining four froze, watching him. Arthur looked between them, licking his lips. Praying they would run off now that they saw he was a threat.
Instead, they all ran at him at once, barking and yipping, their cries ringing out across the sand.
Arthur ran at the dog directly in front of him, swinging his sword across his body. He cut clean through it, blood and organs spilling across the sand as the dog came apart.
One leapt onto his back, staggering him forwards a step, and sunk its teeth into his shoulder, claws digging into the flesh of his back for purchase. Arthur bellowed, the pain shocking and fresh. He reached back and grabbed hold of the animal by one of its legs, yanked it free, and then flung it away like a doll. It landed hard in a boneless tumble, whimpering.
Immediately another was at its caff, sinking teeth into him, the fourth leaping and clapping jaws down on his sword arm.
Arthur threw himself to the ground, crushing the dog on his arm beneath himself. It made an awful, murderous sound, long canines grinding down into his bone as it refused to let go. He grabbed its head in his hand and squeezed and squeezed and squeezed. The dog at his calf had drawn a long strip of flesh from his leg and Arthur turned onto his side to skewer the animal, flinging the dog with the squashed head away.
He pulled his sword free and attempted to rise, but his leg buckled beneath him immediately, both from the damage the dog had dealt, and the old arrow wounds reopening. He sat his jaw and forced his hands beneath himself, determined to stand.
The last dog sprung out of the dark, screeching and snarling horrifically, going for his throat. Arthur put his arm up to intercept the bite, but was still thrown onto his back, landing hard in the sand. The dog thrasted, dragging its teeth through his arm, drawing long rivets through his flesh. Arthur jerked it close by the strength of its own bite, directly onto the edge of his sword, and whipped it across the dog's throat.
Hot blood sprayed him and the animal dropped off him, to the side, still. Arthur fell flat on his back, gasping for breath. There was a sudden stabbing in his shoulder and he slapped a hand to it, searching for the culprit–he came away with a long canine tooth.
Arthur lay there for a long time, bleeding into the sand. Thinking maybe this was how he would die. But when no fatigue took him and his strength did not ebb, he forced himself back to his feet.
His clothing, gifted to him by the septon, was ripped in several places. They had been thin, flowing clothes that breathed easily in the heat–baggy trousers and tunic, dyed the color of the red sands so as to not stand out. His long scarf, with which to wrap his head and shoulders, was at least untouched.
He limped about, gathering his meager belongings, and used strips of cloth to tie his wounds.
The corpses of the dogs scattered his campsite. There was no blood–the parched earth had absorbed it all quickly.
By the time the sun had risen the harp was under his arm again, his supplies over his shoulder (the good one) and the sword at his side. He pressed further into the desert.
—
It was when the desert no longer persisted that Arthur knew he was home. The Red Mountains dipped off into valleys and those valleys grew lush and damp, and soon he was trudging through floodplains. Rich, verdant green, rife with untamed mangroves and willow trees. This was the Torrentine–the river itself, but then all that within its floodplains, where any life was fostered by its waters.
Fields of verdant green rushed out from the Torrentine, extending along the coast. The land here was extraordinarily flat, but did accede into the sea at any point–a hundred feet of cliffs separated those lands of the Torrentine from the water below, except for at a single point. At the Torrentine's terminus, where the deep, wide river, over millennia, had eroded its way to meet the waterline. Remaining of whatever ancient geological barrier there had been between river and sea was a lone rocky island, sitting as much in the sea as it was in the river so that the Torrentine broke around it.
It was upon this island, far inland enough that it was shielded from storms by the cliffs, too far from shore to be threatened by the yearly floods, which stood the seat of House Dayne. The walls of Starfall completely enveloped the island that both it and the castle itself were named thus. White stone were the walls and then the many towers that adjoined them, the palest of which was the Palestone Sword.
And then at the highest point of this fortification was the keep of Starfall itself, raised by the ancient Kings of the Torrentine to oversee the river and its lands that made up their kingdom. The structure, with all its towers and vaulted heights, was so grand a home that Arthur could sometimes scarce believe that he had grown up in a place.
He started off towards it, feeling practically dwarfed by the breadth and volume of the open land around him, even more so by the castle itself.
Starfall had many fields that surrounded it, beginning at the Torrentine's mouth, and then receding inland. Olive fields, gardens of white roses and lilies, lemon and orange orchards. Produce that grew only in the Dornish climate, and only where there was enough water to grow it. The Daynes were a powerful house with a famous and long history. But they were also a wealthy one and this was owed to the health and nature of the Torrentine.
It was through this floodplains, through this fields, and onto the road that Arthur limped. To the grand bridge that was the island's sole connection to the mainland, and directly up to the castle's portcullis. The great iron gate was closed, which Arthur found concerning–it was usually only shut at night.
The guard there was paying him no intention, instead deep in his nose for a booger. After being away for so long being here, seeing it as something physical rather than abstract, was jarring. He was at Starfall. It almost didn't feel real. That he should be somewhere else, not standing outside the gates of his home, in rags, bleeding, waiting to be let in.
"Pardon," Arthur began, and the startled soldier swung his head towards him. Startled still to see Arthur standing there, his eyes practically bulging out of his head.
"Ser Arthur?" The man exclaimed. "But you're–"
—
"–dead."
A fire crackled low in the hearth.
Ulrick leaned against the window, looking out on the water as the sun set. They were in Starfall's solar where the memory of Vorian was fresh. Ulrick had left it nearly untouched since their father's death. He was different than Arthur remembered. He and Arthur were of a height, but where Arthur had spent the last ten and one years as a Kingsguard and one of the finest swordsmen alive, Ulrick had spent them as an aristocrat. He was broad, powerfully built, but without definition.
Arthur sat on a stool, occasionally wincing as Maester Osmund stitched his injuries. He was in a daze. "How?"
Ulrick took a deep drink from the chalice in his head, then turned from the window. The pitcher was on the table by Arthur and he came over to refill it.
"She was spied… walking the walls around evening, last night… I thought to give her her space," Ulrick said, voice thick with emotion. "And then, later, a guard roused me from my bed, told me… told me she had stepped off. Without a word. Had put foot over the edge and then was gone."
Numbness. Ashara. Of any of them…
"Why?" Arthur asked wretchedly, biting hard into his lip to keep control.
There was an armchair before the fire and Ulrick dropped into it. A big thing of velvet and leather. Arthur could imagine that the Lord of Starfall spent many nights before the fire just like this, wine glass in hand, brooding.
"Eddard Stark," Ulrick had to force the name out, it pained him so just to say it, "he arrived at our gates only a few days ago. An infant in one arm, your sword under the other. He had some… belief that Ashara felt a way towards him. He entered the castle alone and went straight to her. I didn't even know he had arrived until later."
Arthur's heart thudded in his chest, knowing where this led.
"I was not there for any of it or I would've rung his skinny neck. But he told her that Elia, the princess, had been raped. Her children smashed to pieces. That he had killed you with his own hands. And then gave her your sword as proof."
Arthur could not fathom such cruelty.
"I heard it from Ashara later. I… I am not you, Arthur. I comforted her in my way. But…" Ulrick raised his drink to his lips. "I am not you…"
A log popped in the hearth. Arthur shut his eyes.
"That is all Osmund," he said after a moment's silence.
The maester paused. Despite his advanced age, there was no tremor to his hands. "I have not finished my stitching, ser."
"I'll live, till then. Give my brother and I a moment."
Osmund bowed his head and shuffled out, closing the door behind himself.
"Seven years, Arthur," Ulrick said in a low voice.
"I know. I am sorry."
"And then that… ridiculous man comes into my castle, claiming he has killed you. He was wise to hide from me. I would have had him thrown into the sea."
"You said he had a baby with him,"
"I would not have murdered the baby, Arthur," Ulrick said, annoyed. "I'm not a maniac."
That wasn't what he had been implying, but he didn't bother to correct Ulrick. Arthur was not so oblivious to the identity of said infant. That Eddard should arrive at the tower, as Lyanna was giving birth, and arrive at Starfall a few days later with a child under his arm? Who did he think he was fooling?
Lyanna was dead. As Arthur had suspected, she had not survived the Tower of Joy. Despite himself, Arthur felt some kind of perverse satisfaction that she should be. That Eddard had lost a sister too. Even though he had liked Lyanna. Even though Rhaegar had loved her. Let Eddard suffer the way Arthur suffered. It was a spiteful, petty thought, unbecoming of the Sword of the Morning. But he felt it all the same.
"What will you do now?" Ulrick asked.
Arthur lifted his good shoulder, "I had intended to go to Viserys."
"Not anymore?"
Arthur lifted his shoulder again. Viserys was not the true king. That fell to Rhaegar's child. He would not join a cause doomed to failure. Not when the prince that was promised yet lived. It was Rhaegar who had his loyalty. Rhaegar and Rhaegar alone.
But it was not something to enlighten Ulrick to. His brother need not know it.
"It's been seven years, Arthur," Ulrick said again. "Seven whole years."
"I know. I am sorry."
"You were supposed to be my right hand," Ulrick said. "When mother and father passed, I thought 'now he will come home. Now I will have my brother back.'"
"I am sorry."
"Stop apologizing!" Ulrick snapped. "Do you think Ashara decided to kill herself in a night?" He leaned forwards in his chair. "Did you really believe her so fragile?"
Arthur gave Ulrick a hard look, "Not for one instance."
"You were gone, Arthur," Ulrick said, rising out of his chair. Arthur didn't stand to meet him, only looked up at his brother. "We needed you and you were gone."
"I know."
Ulrick wiped his eyes on the back of his hand, swaying a bit from the drink, "You arrogant piece of shit. They gave you everything, mother and father. They gave you the whole world. What did you do with it?"
Arthur stood now, grimacing as he put weight onto his bad leg. "That is enough, Ulrick."
His brother slammed his chaice down and stepped towards Arthur, so that they were nose to nose. "What did you do with it?" Ulrick demanded at a whisper, eyes alight, frenzied. "What do you have to show?"
Arthur met him with a level gaze. "Nothing. I have nothing to show for it."
"You weren't here," Ulrick said brokenly. Arthur reached out and pulled Ulrick into a tight hug just as his brother began to sob freely into his shoulder.
"I'm here now,
"I'm here now."
—
Arthur stood looking up at the tower of the Palestone Sword. At the dead of night, few moved about the castletown that Arthur was able to reach without any unwanted reunions.
The guard outside had moved on on his patrol and so Arthur entered without being seen. Usually Palesword Sword would have been impenetrable. But tonight was an exception in many ways.
The tower was exactly as he remembered it had been all those years ago. When, as a boy, the Daynes had deliberated above and ultimately decided him worthy. His duel with Trystane. Had that been for show, merely a part of the ceremony? Or would they truly have denied him Dawn if he had lost?
The dust was thick on the ground, on the lone bench. Arthur climbed the creaking stairs to the tower's annex.
It was smaller than he remembered. And on the plinth at the center: Dawn, sparkling in the dim light.
He dropped to his knees before it, reliving the moment he had first received it. Life had been so much simpler then. Purer. Untainted by the complexities and realities of adulthood. Why had he ever left? When had making a name for himself become so important? Had he really given up a life–a family–all for his own reputation? Was he truly that arrogant?
Or had it been in the name of duty? He was true to his Kingsguard vows. He had sworn to serve, had all his life wanted to serve, and he had. Served with unmatched dignity and grace, his honor unimpinged.
He had dutifully served a raving madman. Had served him by standing by uselessly as men were burned alive, screaming for their mothers.
It had been Rhaegar he was the true servant to. Rhaegar whom he had really respected.
Rhaegar who had seduced a girl of only ten and six years. Rhaegar, who had plunged the realm into chaos, causing the deaths of thousands, ended a three century old dynasty.
Was that who Arthur was then? A non judgemental, fervently obedient, servant? A follower without fail?
He couldn't remember ever feeling he was that. And yet, looking back now, it did seem that way. That he had been wholly committed to a cause not worth his soul. Not worth the filth and shame he'd had to drench his hands in for it.
The Sword of the Morning was supposed to be more. It was more. It was more than killing, more than sheer fighting ability. There was a notion, an ideal attached to it. That was what Arthur had been chasing. His own identity. Around and around in a circle, an endless loop. If Arthur was the Sword of the Morning, and the Sword of the Morning him, if the two had messed together at some point and become inseparable, then it had all been a pointless exercise in futility. He had spent his whole life striving for something that he had long achieved. The whole time, he could comfort himself by saying he had acted and comported himself with dignity. But what was that really worth?
He carried so much shame. Shame for his failures, his absences. Ashara, Rhaegar, Gerold. Regrets that only seemed to mount. Was there a way to wash them away? To cleanse himself, to be new again? Where was the youth who had held this sword and dreamed so sincerely? Could Arthur ever be him again?
He slipped his fingers beneath the blade and lifted it from the plinth. It was just as he remembered. Perfectly balanced. A masterpiece without flaw. He took the sword in both hands and stood, holding it above his head.
Beams of starlight, thin as they were, cast through those slots that ringed the tower's ceiling. And they caught Dawn's blade, which glowed with power. As though it were a star itself, longing to return to the sky.
"I am not finished with you," he said, holding the sword level, searching for his reflection within its blade. But the metal was as opaque as always. "And you are not finished with me. You will never be finished with me."