Ned and his lone companion rounded a bend in the River Torrentine, and before them, in the distance, lay the castle of Starfall, gleaming white and tall on its island. On either side of the river were fields and groves now, and a town sat on the east bank, just upriver from the island. Ned could hardly believe this was still Dorne. It was as green as he remembered the Riverlands to be, only rockier.

After they had buried the bodies at the tower—he could not take all five of his men on a trek back up through the mountains, and he doubted any of them would appreciate being stripped of flesh and boiled—they had travelled to the Silent Sisters sanctuary nearby.

He had given them Lyanna's body. Then he'd left Howland with the babe and the two women while he travelled to Starfall with the man called Borsyo. He couldn't bear to look upon Lyanna's face one last time, but now he wished he hadn't been so cowardly. The knowledge was only now settling in—taking root—that he would never look at her in the flesh again. Already knowledge of it ached like a festering wound.

Rhaegar had left Lyanna only an old Rhoynish healer called Yli, her son Borsyo, who did the heavy-lifting, and her granddaughter Wylla, who served as the infant's wet-nurse.

He had not known what to say to any of them. The old woman had seen Ser Arthur's body lying in the sand and let out a blood-curdling wail For a long time she would not stop crying, though her granddaughter had assured Ned all would be well.

"My gran came to Starfall with the late Lady Dayne," she had explained. "She watched Lord Arthur grow up and the like. But she understands. It's war. People die in war. You gave him a quick honourable end."

She understands. But Ned doubted his family would. Gods, he hoped he would be met with the stranger that was Lord Dayne when he arrived at Starfall. Hoped to hope that Ashara would somehow not be there. He could not face her.

And go to Starfall he must, and not only because he needed to return Dawn to salvage what was left of his honour. It was clear that people at the castle knew Lyanna had been here. With Rhaegar. Knew, likely, that there would be a child. If he was to hide the infant away and keep him safe, he and those at the castle would need to tell the same story.

They stopped once more to water the horses, and Ned gratefully took the flatbread spread with spiced paste from his silent companion. It seemed that Borsyo was not merely a most reticent man, as Ned had originally thought. He was actually incapable of speech, though he could make humming or huffing sounds to accompany his gesticulating. Ned did not mind, really.

He was not the talkative sort himself. The silent ride had given him ample time to consider his options with his nephew, whom he had decided to name after Jon Arryn. He would claim him as his bastard child—no one would question it, surely, for it was common enough that men had bastards on campaign—and he would take him back to Winterfell.

Hoster Tully would not like it, and Ned did not like the idea of declaring to the realm that he had been unfaithful to his wife, but he would deal with those problems when they faced him in King's Landing.

Ned supposed that, if Borsyo did not speak, that was one fewer tongue to worry about. However, what he was to do with Yli the healer and Wylla the wet-nurse he could not fathom. Eventually they would need to go home, and Wylla in particular seemed the chatty sort.

If Arthur Dayne had brought them to the tower, likely he had trusted them, but they were not Ned's people, and he could not be sure. He was not sure of anything anymore—anything save he needed to protect Lyanna's son at all costs, and gods help him, he would find a way.

Rhaegar and his careless stupidity. Ned found himself gritting his teeth each time Rhaegar entered his mind. He did not know what to make of Lyanna's words, but she had been right. It did not matter. The man left his children and wife to be slaughtered, and no matter if he kept Lyanna safe, was bedding her a necessity too? And now Lyanna was no more than bones in a chest thanks to Rhaegar Targaryen.

Sometimes Ned found himself wishing he had been the one to crush in his chest at the Trident, and he clung to the anger, for it hurt less than the helpless grief.

As he rode up to the bridge leading to the castle, he said another silent prayer. He felt as though he were a raven, carrying death with him as he rode. His dark wings spread to cast black shadows over those who neared him, despite the blaring Dornish sun. Please let this be the end, he prayed. I cannot bear any more misfortune. I do not have the strength.

O~O~O~O~O

He had to repeat his title to the guards three times before they understood him, and even then they looked at each other and hesitated—they had never heard of Starks or Winterfell, and why should they? He was about as far from home as he could be without leaving Westeros.

"Can I ask your business here? Uh…milord?" asked the runner boy, clearly dubious about his lordly status. He couldn't blame him for that either. He'd been wearing the same travelling clothes for nearly a fortnight, and though he had done a cursory washing at the sanctuary, there had been no time to shave or even scrub the dust from his face.

"I'm here to see your lord," he said. "I have something to return to him."

The boy bowed and raced off across the bridge without more questions, but one of the guards frowned.

"Lord Dayne's not here, milord. You just missed him a couple days back."

Ned felt his jaw tighten. He had been afraid of this, but he asked stubbornly,

"I will be meeting Lady Dayne then?"

"No, milord" The other guard shook his head. "Our lord isn't married. Lady Ashara is home, so she's in charge."

So it was then. The entire ride here, Ned had repeated to himself over and over that surely Lord Dayne would be home. That surely he would not be forced to meet Ashara like this—be forced to give her this news to her face. Perhaps the gods had found him disingenuous, for he lied when he wished not to see her at all. Or perhaps his gods held no power on the southern edge of this land.

He waited in silence, trying to rehearse the exact words he would use, but he had never been a bard. And anyway, he doubted that any poet could find a gentle way to inform someone he had killed their brother.

Ned did not know how long he stood there, but before he was ready, the guards had received some kind of signal from the castle, and they bowed him through the gateway. Borsyo rode behind him, giving Ned a clear view down the flat bridge and past the final gate. There he saw her, and though he could not make out her features, the sight of her was at once intensely sweet and bitter.

She was standing in the bailey, the breeze blowing her robes around her. Her hair was bound in a braid that spilled over one shoulder, ink against her cream-white skin, and as he drew near, for a moment he was dazzled by a purple sparkle as the sunlight caught her eyes just so.

Warm, brilliant Ash, who had made him laugh until his cheeks hurt, and then looked at him with those gemstone eyes, making him feel ten feet tall. How could he have wished he would not see her? He had not realised how deeply he missed the sight of her.

Gods, how he loved this woman.

No, he reminded himself reflexively. No, he must not think about her now. He was married. He must not dishonour his wife.

Except you aren't married, a cool voice put in. Not anymore. You're free to marry her if you wished.

And Ned stiffened so violently that his horse nearly halted under him. He took a breath, nudging the horse to move again.

He was not married anymore. Because Catelyn was dead. Dead after he'd barely known her a fortnight. Died giving birth to Ned's son. It had not been two moons, and here Ned was thinking of taking another woman to wife. Was he to dishonour Catelyn in truth as well?

He approached the castle gateway now, and Ned pulled his mind to the task ahead. It was not hard to do. The weight of Dawn, wrapped in spare sheets, pressed rigid against his back, the weight of his news burning painfully into his flesh.

He had come close enough to Ashara that he could see her throat move as she took in his form. Her face did not betray any emotion, pale and still as the white stone all around them, and even her round eyes were like frozen pools. She was wearing riding breeches under a sheer silk tunic the colour of sand, and her hair was bound with silver wire, though dark curls escaped to fly about her face.

Ned forgot to breathe. He remembered the first time he saw her, how he had been frozen stiff to his bench. Her beauty had overwhelmed his senses, and again Ned was winded by the sight of her.

She was thinner than he remembered, her eyes bigger and her chin pointier. There was an air of fragility about her, as if her clothes were too heavy for her body, for all that they were silks rippling in the breeze.

With a pang, Ned wondered she had received news of his marriage. She must have. It was no secret. When last they saw each other he had held her to him and all but promised he would find a way to marry her. He had broken that promise, and every whispered word of affection between them. He had had no choice, but he had done her wrong regardless.

He wondered now if it was hubris to think she would be affected by him after all these moons. All who had brokered their marriage were dead. She was no longer obliged to him, and she had made it clear the Dornish did not view what they'd shared at Harrenhal to be dishonourable.

Had she only felt affection for him because she knew they would be wed? Had the time between them faded her feelings like dyed fabric under the sun? Her face was a stone mask, and he wondered briefly if this was Robert's complaint about his own face—that it seemed made of stone and betrayed no emotions.

For once Ned was glad of it. He hoped the tangle of guilt and anguish and longing in his chest was not written on his face for all to see. Somehow, he managed to climb from his horse and land on his feet. He walked towards her, and she curtseyed, then extended a hand as was proper.

"Lord Stark," she said, her eyes meeting his without hesitation, though he could not seem to find her in them. For a moment he hesitated, wondering if it was wise to touch her.

"My lady," he said finally, unable to bring himself to say her name. He took her hand lightly and bowed over it, thankful for the cover of formality. Her skin was ice cold, and Ned frowned.

"Are you well, my lady?" he could not help asking. Her throat moved again.

"Of course, my lord." She hesitated. "I trust you are well? And uninjured?"

"Yes, I thank you."

For a moment they simply stared at each other, Ned feeling suspended in the air like a puppet. Finally, she nodded at him and turned away, then over to where Borsyo was dismounting his horse. She gave the moustachioed man next to her a meaningful look before coming back to Ned.

"Please, come inside, my lord. Corynne, have a room and bath prepared."

The girl nodded, then looked at Ned, a little hesitant. Ned realised then that she meant to take the parcel he wore on his back, so shook his head.

"I will take this in with me, thank you." The girl frowned, but curtseyed and slipped away.

Ashara looked at him again, curious, and it was he who bowed his head and looked at his boots. She led the way then, her riding boots clicking on the white stone. As they passed through another gateway, he thought he saw her hands trembling, but when they came into light again she had hidden them in her robes.

Starfall was unlike any castle Ned had ever seen. They emerged onto a long courtyard lined with trees and a series of fountains surrounded by porticoes of intricate trifold arches. Ned followed Ashara down one of the covered walkways, his eyes straying to take in the exotic beauty of the place despite his troubled mind. At the end of the courtyard, she bade him enter.

The great hall opened up before him, ornate with carved wood and marble, and sprinkled with light falling through the lattice windows on the vaulted ceiling. A young page stood in one of the light beams, carrying a tray. Silently, Ashara glided over to him and brought two plates to Ned.

"Bread and salt, my lord," she said, offering him the ancient symbols of guest right. Ned reached to take the bread, but for a moment was uncertain. Did he do so in bad faith? Should he tell her what he had done first? Likely once she had heard it, she would not wish to extend him any courtesy. Never in his years at the Vale had Jon prepared him for what to do should he need to bring news of this nature.

The page was still in the hall, however, and Ashara was beginning to frown at him.

"I thank you." Ned took a piece of bread, dipped it in salt, and placed it in his mouth. She then brought Ned a brightly-coloured bowl.

"Rose tea," she said. "For the heat."

Ned nodded again, and drank all the warm liquid, his throat easing after the dry bread and salt. She brought the bowl back to the page, then dismissed him.

"Come, this way my lord." She led him through the empty hall then and past the high table into a smaller room, equally dappled with light. At the centre was an elaborate wooden table.

She bade him sit, but before either of them did so Ned removed Dawn from his back and set it on the table. He could not allow himself the luxury of putting off the news one moment more. She frown again, her lips slightly parted with the question she was about to ask.

"You said you came to return something to my lord brother, Lord Stark," she said stiffly.

"Yes." He unwrapped the sheet. Dawn lay amid the fabric, its scabbard the same rich wood of the table it rested on, the clear yellow stone on its pommel catching the sunlight. Ned forced himself to look at Ashara, and watched as shock and bafflement crept into her face.

"How do you have my brother's sword?" Her voice came to him in a whisper, a question as if for herself.

"I am very sorry, my lady. Ser Arthur—he is dead."

Her head snapped up, her eyes huge.

"What did you say?"

Ned resisted the urge to avert his gaze. Don't be a coward now. You owe her this.

"Ser Arthur is dead. I slew him."

For a moment she was still as a statue, and then, to Ned's horror, she laughed.

"No, you didn't. That's impossible." She was still smiling an exquisite, haunting smile, shaking her head as if he had told an elaborate jape.

"My lady—"

"What funny trick are you playing, my lord? And you expect me to believe you could have bested my brother? The best knight in the realm? Please, my lord, really, you don't even know where Arthur—"

"Ashara!"

The smile slipped from her face as she flinched, her eyes returning to the sword.

"This is no jest. I speak true."

"I don't believe you," she said, her voice shaking, her eyes fixed. "You're speaking nonsense. Tell me how you have Arthur's sword."

Ned closed his eyes and let out a coarse breath. He had expected her to rage or to weep, but not this.

"I received news about my sister's whereabouts while at Storm's End. I brought six men with me, and we travelled to the tower. Ser Arthur and the two other King's Guard there stopped us. We drew swords, and in the fight Ser Arthur was mortally injured. I ended his life with my own hands."

Again she was shaking her head.

"No, but you could not have injured him so. He…you…Arthur is…"

For a moment, Ned did not notice that she was starting to lilt to one side, and was barely in time to catch her as she stumbled. Trembling himself, he helped her into a chair, and when she gripped his arm, he could feel her icy hand through the fabric of his shirt.

"How did it happen?" she whispered. "Every detail. Tell me how it happened."

Ned closed his eyes again, truth and lordly duty warring in his mind. Finally, he told her—his words simple, his voice level—of the way he had sparred with Arthur Dayne. How Ser Arthur had disarmed him, how he had approached him, how Howland had injured him and how Ned had ended Ser Arthur's life with a dagger.

"My banner man did his duty to protect me," he said. "It was I who took your brother's life. Any fault is with me. Please bear him no ill will." She did not move for a long time, her face stone.

When she looked back at him, Ned thought she might strike him, her eyes were so sharp. He would have let her—he deserved worse—but after a tense silence her brow knotted, and something seemed to shatter in her face.

Ned felt something shatter in him too. Perhaps it was his heart. Perhaps it was only jagged shards of guilt. Not knowing what else to do, he reached into his tunic and pulled out the little shell Ser Arthur had pressed into his hand.

"He gave me this."

Again she froze, staring at the pearly glow of the thing, and then she pushed out of her chair, stumbled from the table and through another door, her uneven steps echoing in the empty hall.

O~O~O~O~O

Ned found her in a small courtyard alive with the sound of gurgling fountains. The river seemed louder here too, and the murmuring duet of waves and fountains filled the little space to the brim.

Ashara was braced against a tree, free hand over her mouth, heaving as if sick. For some moments he just stood under the doorway and stared, watching the grief rack her body. Part of him screamed to run to her and hold her and take away her hurt, but he could do none of that.

Finally, she seemed to sense his presence, and looked up at him. Her cheeks were flushed an unnatural crimson, and her eyes rimmed in red, though there were no tears. She took one staggering step towards him, then two.

"Where is it?"

"I'm sorry?"

"The shell. Where is it?"

Only then was he aware that he still clutched the thing. He opened his hand, and she took the shell from him as if in a daze.

"Did he say anything?"

"Only that he wished to be buried there. And that he was sorry about you, and-" He hesitated. She hadn't seemed to hear him, but when he did not continue she turned her amethyst eyes up to him.

"And my sister," he finished. She blinked, and then those eyes grew huge once more, and her brows knitted.

"Lyanna…and her babe…where is she? And Old Yli and Wylla?"

Ned told her, his voice blanketed by the waves and gurgling fountains, but again she was shaking her head.

"No, she—she is only seven months gone. She should not have started labour so early, I don't...no, none of this is real…"

Breathing alone seemed suddenly to burden her. She turned to him, her hands moving as if to reach for him, but then she balled them into fists and walked way from him to brace herself against the tree once more.

"I promised I would see her through this," he heard her whisper, surely to herself. "I told her I'd be with her, I promised I'd teach her how to throw blades…This is all a terrible dream. I will wake soon, and all will be well."

A stab of white-hot grief pierced him as if from nowhere, and Ned wondered how it was that he was not bleeding in truth, so blinding was the pain.

"I wish it were a dream as well," he heard himself say. She faced him, and in a blur of glowing silks she was before him, her cold hand on his. Her eyes were deep as the black water pool at Winterfell, and he wanted to lose himself in her and never emerge. Perhaps if they could stay like this, eyes locked, he would not need to face his cold truths.

"I am sorry. For Lyanna," she whispered. "So deeply sorry. There was so much life in her that I cannot fathom her gone."

Ned only nodded. When had it become her task to comfort him?

"Ashara, your brother, I—"

"No! Please, don't." She closed her eyes and pulled away quickly, as if shrinking from a fire. "I cannot…just do not tell me you are sorry too. He would hate to hear you to say so."

She was walking away now, shoulders rising with her breaths. At the doorway she stopped, but did not turn back.

"A servant will come take you to your chambers. I plan to send riders to fetch Old Yli and Wylla from the sanctuary. With your permission, they will bring your banner man and child here as well."

"I could not impose. Not after…" It was shocking she had not yet ordered him out of her home.

"It is not an imposition. My brother died to protect that child. The best place for him is here, where he will be cool and fed and properly cared for. Please pen a letter to your—your banner man, for my men to take with them."

When Ned did not immediately answer, she turned to face him, her eyes burning, her face tight.

"Gods be good, Eddard Stark, I mean neither of you harm! Must I swear it on Arthur's bones?"

"No! I did not mean—that was not why—my lady, please. I do not know what to say."

"Say nothing, then. And do as I ask."

Ned hesitated. "Tis simply that this is a large castle. I fear the child's presence would be impossible to keep secret."

"What secret is there to keep, my lord? You are a father with his newborn son."

Then she faded into the shadow of the corridor.

A/N: Just a note on the Daynes' colouring: pretty sure they mostly look like Targaryens, and their purple eye, blonde hair, pale skin genes are much stronger than that of the Targaryens because millennia of intermarrying with other houses haven't done away with their purple eye.

In canon, Catelyn thinks of Ashara as "The Lady Ashara Dayne, tall and fair, with haunting violet eyes." So. I'm going to go ahead and say she's pretty pale.