Starfall

The same day

Ashara stood in the highest tower room at Starfall, looking south to where the Torrentine spilled into the Summer Sea. The tide was rising, and the currents knit a quilt of diamonds in the rich blue waters, the little splashes blooming frothy white in the sun. For the third time since her return home, she considered what it might feel like to jump.

Family tradition held that daughters' rooms always faced northeast, overlooking the lower courtyards and the endless tiers of castle gardens. Every morning at Starfall, she could look across the Torrentine at the town on the east bank, imagining the townspeople bustling about their new day, seeing the little dots appear on the water as fishermen set out in their boats.

Yet Ashara had always liked the boys' rooms better—the ones that looked south, past the tails of the Red Mountains and onto the endless sea—for there was something exhilarating and free about the vast expanse of blue on the horizon, as if full of promise.

So here she stood, on the upper floor of the Palestone Sword, the wind tangling her hair as she looked out at the promise of life from her window. If she climbed up on the ledge and stepped out into the nothingness, would she feel the wind rushing through her hair as she fell? For those few breaths, would she feel unburdened and light again?

She was too high up to smell the salt of the sea, but not so high that the air was completely dry. As a young girl, she had hated the way the wet sea breeze made her skin sticky and hot, but she had since known the parched air of Sunspear and the bone-deep damp of Dragonstone, and the warm, thick air here felt like an embrace.

In the year since she had come home, she would climb the hundreds of steps up here to find some solace when her heart ached so much she found it hard to breathe. With the open expanse of the sea to one side and the Red Mountains to the other, she felt like she could fly away from her body and all the pain she carried like chains around her neck.

Ashara had come home from Dragonstone carrying the bones of her stillborn daughter in an ornate box. She had not been able to cry once since it happened—not through the cloying pain of the miscarriage, not when Elia held her head in her lap and stroked her hair with soft fingers, not when she lit the funeral pyre on the Ait of Ling.

She could not think of her daughter for long. The grief of it made her ill and dizzy, and sometimes the pain was so sharp she would close her eyes and see pinpricks of light behind her eyelids. She had never known this tiny child, had never had the chance to see what shade of purple her eyes took on, but still, it felt like losing the babe had carved a bloody hole into her breast.

And yet, she could not cry.

Nor had she been able to weep when news came from the north, first that the king had burned Rickard Stark and strangled his heir, then that Ned Stark, new Lord of Winterfell, had taken his late brother's betrothed to wife.

In truth, on that last day at Harrenhal, when Rhaegar had abandoned his plans completely and crowned Lyanna Stark with winter roses, Ashara had feared that the marriage her brother had planned would not be allowed to take place. Something had gone terribly awry in Rhaegar's plan to call a council and overthrow his father.

When she had slipped away to take that last, hasty leave of Ned, they had not talked about the politics swirling around them, of the seeming impossibility of their marriage now, of their duty and their families. She had only told him her fear—that perhaps their time together had been but a miraculous dream—and he had held her to his chest and whispered in her ear.

"I don't know what will happen, or when I will see you next. But I swear to you, if I can find a way to marry you, I will."

That had been all the promise he could give her. It had not been enough. He could not have waged this war without Tully troops, nor could the North survive the winter if it bore the ill-will of the Riverlands. Hoster Tully wanted his grandson to one day be Warden of the North, and Ned Stark had chosen his duty and his honour. As he should. She was just one woman, and he was just one man. What did their private pains matter?

She understood it all. She was his enemy besides, and her brother protected the prince who stole away his sister, no matter that Rhaegar had been trying to save her from the king. And yet, the longing still bubbled in her belly, and irrationally, she refused to be resigned to the death of this love.

Ashara had been no blushing maid at Harrenhal. Few could grow up in the Dornish court and still be innocent at nine and ten. She had kissed her first girl at twelve and her first boy at thirteen, and the following year had given her maidenhead to Myles Manwoody while Symon Santagar kissed her breasts.

At Sunspear, at court, and later on Dragonstone, Ashara had taken lovers for lust, for affection, for secrets and for favours. She had never been in danger of losing her head with any of them, as if she could feel the end of each affair before it began.

Yet one look into Ned Stark's soft grey eyes, and she had fallen completely out of her senses. Somehow she knew this man could see into the depths of her, and cherish her as she was, and easily hold her heart in his hand.

He was honourable and serious and proper, but wolf blood ran just as thick in him as his siblings, for all that he denied it. When he had spoken of his family, she had known he would put aside all lofty notions of honour and pride for each of them, and Ashara had imagined often how it must feel to be loved so. And it seemed, in those sweet days, that perhaps he really did love her.

So she could not find it in her to put that love behind her, though she knew in her mind that she had little to offer him now, and he would never dishonour his new wife. She was going to love Ned Stark for the rest of her life, and it seemed she had not yet determined how she would live that life without him.

She needed him here now. Ached for him to wrap his arms around her waist and kiss the nape of her neck. If she closed her eyes, she could almost imagine he was standing just behind her, and smell the dark rich scent of him. It was nonsensical, really, how quickly someone she had not even known to miss could become as essential to her as food and breath, but it was the truth of things.

If he were here now, she would find some comfort, she was sure of it. But if he were really here, she would be living a different world entirely, and perhaps she would not need to be comforted at all.

O~O~O~O~O

Earlier that day, she had just coaxed Allyria into a nap when Dev's steward came to find her, asking her to come to his winter solar. Ashara had thought nothing of the summons—she did act as Lady of Starfall when she was home, and her brother often had things to consult with her.

She found Dev's solar door ajar, so Ashara tapped on the wood and pushed it inward in one motion.

"Dev?"

Adevar Dayne, Lord of Starfall, had been sitting at his desk, his head in his hands. At her entrance, he looked up, but did not give her his usual grin and gregarious compliment as a greeting. At once she had frowned, sensing something wrong, but he only nodded for her to sit.

"How's Lyrie doing? Chafing at the bit yet?"

"As she always does," Ashara sighed.

It had been four days since Ashara had come home from the tower, and Allyria was at last strong enough to sit up for a morning without wilting. She had been afflicted with this strange illness since she had been a babe—fainting out cold, followed by days of fatigue and weakness a few times each year—and no one had been able to understand what was wrong with her.

Allyria hated her days confined to bed, her physical body in conflict with her little girl's desire to roam and play. Boredom led to tantrums and tears, and her days abed were trials for the entire household, which was the reason Ashara had left Lyanna to come home. She could keep her little sister entertained better than most.

Dev sighed too. "Thank the gods you're here, Ash," he said. "I never was good with children."

"I know." She patted his hand. "Did you need me for something?"

"I've received a summons from Sunspear," he said, staring back down at his letter. Ashara heard her own intake of breath. The prince had never done this.

"Doran needs to make some big decisions given the state of this war, and he wants as many opinions on his council as he can have."

"Can you not send ravens? It's not a short journey, and the air in Sunspear has only become dryer this year."

Her brother was not yet thirty, but his lungs had always been weak. Unlike Arthur, he was spindly and small of frame, barely taller than Ashara herself, and had never possessed the strength required to partake in combat training. She did not like the thought of her brother sailing all the way to Sunspear, let alone spending weeks in that oven of a city.

A faint sliver of a grin curled his lip then.

"Aw, come now, Ash, you're starting to sound like Old Yli. I know what I can handle. This trip will be nothing."

Ashara pressed her lips together, not agreeing, but not disagreeing either. He was the lord, after all, and part of her still instinctively believed he knew best.

"You will leave Ryoon as castellan then? You know I must go back to the tower once Allyria can leave her bed again."

He gave her a frustrated look. "I wish you would not, but I cannot very well order you to do anything. Still, I mislike this mess the prince has died and left us with."

Ashara returned a humourless laugh.

"And Arthur still guards his secrets and tells us nothing. You are not the only one who mislikes the state of things, Dev."

Dev pinched the bridge of his nose.

"He worries me, our brother."

"Yes," Ashara frowned. "He told me not to return. He said he was worried for my safety when it is he who is a wanted man."

Dev shot her a grim smile.

"I fear none of that matters to Arthur. He holds dear our lives, but his own—" Dev shrugged. "He's always said there are things more important."

"And what of his duty to us?" Ashara felt the familiar frustration rise in her throat. Her good, honourable brother, so willing to die for his prince.

Dev's smile turned sad. "Every man must make his choices. Perhaps my choice has given him freedom to make his." Something in Ashara's face must have prompted him to change the subject.

"But it is not he alone who concerns me. Our whole family has been embroiled too deep with Rhaegar's schemes. Now that Robert has won…I fear Starfall is on his road of retribution."

Ashara shook her head.

"We are doing nothing save fulfilling our duty to king and liege. We've done nothing that deserves vengeance, surely."

"From what I have heard of the man, yours would not be his line of reasoning."

She frowned, her chest tightening. She had not thought they could face any sort of danger here, yet if Dev was worried…No, it would make no sense. She tried to shake away the doubt.

"I have told this to Arthur too. They would not risk outright conflict with Dorne, not now that their armies are mostly exhausted. And how will Robert Baratheon get to us without direct conflict with the Martells?"

"Do you really think they would protect us should it come to that?"

She felt her brows shoot up. That was what worried him?

"Of course they will."

He gave her his familiar patronising smile, and she felt herself bristle like an irritated cat.

"Oberyn does not rule Dorne, Ash. Doran does. And for Doran Martell I daresay no personal bonds are as strong as his sense of the greater good."

She opened her mouth to contradict him, but closed it again soundlessly. It was a true enough assessment of Prince Doran—the man had always given her chills, for all that he had only ever been kind to her.

But no. It went beyond whatever love Doran's siblings had for her. Ashara had spent years at Sunspear, taking in the family. She shook her head again.

"They are our liege. For our loyalty, they owe us protection. This is not like the Targaryen invasions of old. Robert does not have dragons. The Martells abide by these rules of fealty now, like the rest of Westeros. We will not be left to fend for ourselves if things really came to a head. Neglecting us would put ice into the hearts of every other lord, and Doran has trouble enough keeping the Ullers and Yronwoods in check as it is."

He looked at her, eyes narrowed in thought.

"It is reasonable to assume his motives thus, so long as you have assessed his mind correctly. I must press the point of our long loyalty then, and remind him of Yronwood treachery and Uller insolence."

Ashara nodded.

"When do you leave?"

"In the next couple of hours, gods willing."

She rose. "I'll go direct some of the packing, shall I?"

She spent the next hours helping the servants ensure Dev had all his comforts for his sea journey—reminding them to pack the best blankets to ward off damp, pointing to the tonics Old Yli had made him his wheezing spells and seasickness.

When all was prepared, she walked with her brother and his retinue down to the docks. She expected him to kiss her on the forehead and depart, but instead he drew her to one side, out of earshot of the others.

"Dev?"

Something felt strange and wrong in the way Dev was looking at her now, the lines between his brows deepening, his eyes growing soft.

"There is another—there is more news from Sunspear that I did not tell you earlier."

"Oh?"

He handed her the letter still bearing the Martell seal.

"I am so very sorry to tell you this, Ashara. Doran has also written that Princess Elia and her children have been killed in King's Landing."

The sky seemed to splinter, the sounds of the dock crowding into her ears and temples, and all she understood was a blur of colours and echoing voices. She had shaken her head, for surely it could not be true, and yet her vision had blurred, and black dots appeared before her eyes. She remembered looking down at the letter, written in Prince Doran's stately hand:

My sister Princess Elia and her two children…kept at King's Landing…hostages for the Mad King to ensure Dornish support…slaughtered when the Lannister army sacked the capital.

Sometime not long after, when her brother had departed, she had stumbled to the end of the dock and heaved the contents of her midday meal into the river, but that too had felt like a blurred, sickening mess.

As if in a fever dream, she had stumbled back up the stony path that led to the water. Perhaps a servant had been there to hold her. She did not recall. In a blinding daze, she must have wandered back up the garden paths under the unrelenting sun, and climbed to the top of the Palestone Sword. She could not remember doing any of that now.

When she had returned to her senses, here she stood, listening to the wind, watching the sea; wondering if, should she jump out this window, she could be light and free from the onerous grief, even for a few short seconds.

The thought did not horrify her as it had the first time it surfaced. Now it was only a consideration, a suggestion that would not give up and die, despite her best efforts when her head was clear.

Just climb on the ledge and step out into the air, the wind seemed to call to her. You shall bear no more of this crushing torment. Your chest will be light, and you will fly as free as a star.

000

Her mother had died when Ashara was seven, and that year, she had sailed to Sunspear to be a companion for Princess Elia.

At the Water Gardens, she had met Prince Oberyn first—wild, skinny and sharp. His mouth was constantly set in a smirk, but his eyes were dark and fierce. He had taken one look at her and asked if she was simple in the head. When she had frowned in confusion, a little offended, he had nodded sagely, as if her reaction confirmed it for him.

"I knew it. I could tell just by looking at you."

"I am not simple in the head! Why would you say that?"

Before he could speak again, a delicate-looking girl had appeared behind him, clamping her small, thin hand over his smirking mouth.

"Don't mind my brother," she had said, her voice as light as a hummingbird. "Some dolt told him that the prettier someone's face, the more stupid they are, and you're the most beautiful girl we've ever seen."

That was the way Elia spoke when she complimented someone—always so earnest and matter-of-fact that it was impossible not to believe her—and Elia was generous with her compliments.

When they played their games in the pools, Elia was always the peacemaker. She was a princess, so despite her small frame, the other children gave her an extra ounce of deference, which she used to make sure all was fair, and no one was left out.

Ashara could barely recall now any specific moment from those early years, but somewhere amid the laughter and embraces and weaving of flowers in each other's hair, she no longer felt the empty confusion of her mother dying.

She had found sisters in those sun-lit days amid the gurgling fountains and flying silks—Larra Blackmont, Moriah Qorgyle, Jynessa Manwoody, Dyanna Dalt—but it was Elia she always carried closest to her heart.

They were all of an age, a couple without mothers, and Elia, though she was supposed to be the princess they served, had become half a mother to them all as well as their friend.

It was always Elia who remembered extra wraps for when they forgot theirs in the evening, and it was Elia who had the best words for when their first romances ended in tears. She had always been quiet and delicate and small, but she was like the sun on the sigil of the Martells. They revolved around their princess, and loved her with all their hearts, and in return she shone light into their lives.

Back before she had known anything of politics and influence, of the way marriage really worked, Ashara had entertained a fancy that Elia would marry Arthur, and she would have Elia for a sister in truth. The couple would live at High Hermitage, heirs to old uncle Dolyon, who had not yet remarried in those days. Ashara would see them every week.

One day, as she brushed the princess' hair, the suggestion had slipped past her lips.

"Oh, Ash," Elia had sighed, taking her hand in her delicate ones. "Arthur and I could never marry. I doubt I will marry a Dornishman at all, and your brother is destined for the King's Guard, don't you know? He will serve the king all his life, and never take a wife."

Ashara had known by then that Arthur would wear the white cloak, of course, and that he would spend his life away from Dorne. The serving girls whispered about her gallant brother every time he came home to visit, and Father and Dev always spoke of Arthur's exploits with pride.

Yet in that way children have of ignoring a fact they found foul to the ear, Ashara had always imagined both her brothers married, with little nieces and nephews chasing her own children over the patterned tiles.

"Come, Ash, don't look so glum," Elia had said when she saw Ashara's face fall. "We could still be sisters in truth. You'd only need to marry Oberyn."

That very idea had sent them both into fits of giggling, for even at twelve it was clear that Oberyn would not marry anyone if given the choice.

How could she exist no longer, her Elia, so gentle with all around her, and so generous with her joy? And little chattering Rhaenys, and the sweet baby Aegon whose cheeks were powdery soft? Who could have hearts so hard that they would snuff out their lives? Elia would not harm a soul, and she would have raised her children to forgive, not to seek revenge.

She could not make logic of it, and the utter senselessness of their deaths was like salt water on an open wound.

Were all those she loved doomed to death? Who would be next?

Night was upon her now, up in her windy tower, chilled and empty. The dark had crept up from the east when she had not noticed, and when she rushed to the western window, she saw that the sun had already slipped beyond the tips of the Red Mountains.

The air still called to her, and so she did not let herself near the windows again. She was a Dayne, and she was of Dorne, but she did not know if she had the strength to carry this grief with her anymore, not as her life stretched long and far before her, and alone.

O~O~O~O~O

Three days later, she was waiting in the stables for Flea when Corynne ran down the steps from the castle, her sandals thwacking the stone.

"Milady! Milady!"

"Slow down, Corynne. And breathe first." For the handmaiden had begun trying to speak, only to be cut off by her own panting.

She took several long breathes before her voice returned.

"Ser Ryoon's asked you come to the gates at once, milady! There are riders at the bridge."

Ashara frowned, but set down her pack and bedroll, motioning Corynne up the stairs.

"Riders? How many?"

"Just two that I saw, milady, but I was running to get you so I didn't get a long look."

"Did Ryoon say anything else?" Starfall was not a castle on a pass-way. The Red Mountain ranges extended into the sea, with only the Torrentine cleaving a sizeable path between them. Starfall sat at the mouth of the river, surrounded by mountains and water.

One did not ride up to their gate unless they had come specifically to see someone in the castle, and Ryoon would not trouble her unless it was a guest she must receive.

"No, milady, nought that he's told me, anyway. He just said as to fetch you quick."

Something tight and anxious was knotting in her stomach. She did not like this at all. There had been no bird from another castle, and with her brother only three days gone to Sunspear…

She emerged into the bailey yard to see Ser Ryoon pacing before the gatehouse, wringing his hands, his moustache bouncing almost comically. He looked up at her footsteps and hurried over.

"Lady Ash, I have no idea what to make of this."

"What? Ser Ryoon, please. Who is at the gate?"

He led her over to the gatehouse, and she followed him inside, where the lookout could clearly see across the flat bridge and through the series of portcullises to the two riders between the guards on the shore.

"Who do they say they are, Ryoon?" She asked again, squinting at them, but she had played this game half her life. Starfall was too far from land to make out anything more than the stature and hair colour of people on land.

"One of them is our Borsyo, my lady," said Ryoon. She frowned, not comprehending. But Borsyo is supposed to be with Lyanna and Arthur.

"The other says he is Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell."