"Arthur, do you have to go?"

Ashara was seven. Ten days past, they had laid Amma's body out on the white stone pyre, and Aba had held a torch to her purple robes until the silk came alive with flame.

When the fire died, she had watched her mother's ashes being carried away on the sea breeze, whispering around them before disappearing forever into the horizon.

And now Arthur was leaving her too.

They were lying head to head on one of the pebble beaches tucked away below Starfall, the splashing of the waves the only sound filling the little cove. Her brother had his eyes closed, soaking in the sun like a lizard, but Ashara kept her eyes wide open.

She did not understand why he must go to King's Landing.

"Why can't you train with Ser Ryoon like you do now? You can't even best him in sparring yet."

"I do not leave for a better teacher," he said, giving her hand a pat. "I go because it is a great honour to be invited. I'll be training with the king's master at arms, and I'll be a companion to the prince. We are cousins, don't you know?"

"But won't you miss Starfall?" Won't you miss me, she wanted to ask.

He turned to her and opened his eyes, giving her a shrug.

"It matters not. It is my duty to bring honour to our house."

Ashara wanted to tell him that she didn't care one wit about the honour that her brothers and father so often spoke of. She could not see it or touch it, and she would much rather have Arthur home—to play with her and tell her stories using his array of character voices—than this elusive "honour" that she did not understand.

She kept her mouth shut. Perhaps before, she would have told him her thoughts, but if she did Arthur would only give her a patronising smile and tell her she there was much she did not know. Aba had told her she must not be a little girl any longer, and Ashara was determined not to disappoint him.

"You will visit home often, won't you?" She asked instead. Arthur frowned.

"I do not think I can. I'll have many responsibilities, I imagine, and it is not a short trip to King's Landing."

"I wish I could go with you." Ashara had never been anywhere beyond the Red Mountains and the Prince's Pass, and when she looked out into the sea from the Palestone Sword, she wished she could know how it felt to sail into the open waters, bound for adventure.

She wanted to visit Sunspear and Oldtown, King's Landing and Lannisport. She wanted to stand at the top of The Wall, and then she wanted to see Qarth and the Free Cities.

When she grew bored with Maester Bors' lectures on grain production and tax collection, she would conjure images of all the places she'd learned of, and fancy herself an intrepid explorer who would travel the known world. Arthur would be with her, of course. She didn't know how to fight with a sword, and she would get lonely if she went by herself.

It seemed all too attractive now. Perhaps if she left home for a while, she could get rid of this weight that had recently settled on her chest, and find it easier to breathe.

Arthur had given her a funny look.

"From what I have heard, King's Landing is crowded and dirty. And it stinks."

"I still want to see it. I heard the dome on the Great Sept is made entirely of glass and crystal, and the bells are bigger than elephants."

"How do you know how big elephants are?"

"I don't. I want to see elephants too."

A spark lit in Arthur's eyes.

"I'd like to see an elephant as well," he admitted.

"Mayhaps when you're done with this training, we can go see elephants together," said Ashara, the very prospect bubbling pleasantly in her belly.

Arthur smiled, but it was a little sad.

"I'll take you to see elephants someday."

Ashara frowned.

"It will be very long before I see you again, won't it?"

"Not so very long. A couple of years, I imagine."

What was he saying? Two whole years? That was an eternity. Would he even remember her by then?

Ashara scrambled to her feet, an idea suddenly occurring to her. For a few minutes, she scanned the little pebbles, examining them while Arthur sat up, confused.

Finally, she found a perfect little shell and brought it over to her brother. It was barely the size of her palm, and a most true shade of pink, glowing pearlescent in the sun.

"I know necklaces are for girls, but will you find a way to keep this on you?"

Arthur had raised an eyebrow at her, skeptical.

"Why? What's so special about the shell?"

Ashara bit her lip.

"I don't know. I just like it best. I don't want you to forget about me when you're gone."

Her voice trailed off at the end like a wisp if smoke, and she could feel herself blushing. But Arthur didn't laugh or give her more confused looks.

He only nodded, and pulled out his dagger. Frowning in concentration, he bore a small hole into the shell. Then he picked loose the hem of his under-tunic and pulled out several long threads, twisting them together and threading them through the shell.

"Put it on for me."

She tied the threads behind his neck.

"I'll think about you every time I see it," he said. "So long as I keep changing into clean clothes, you don't need to worry I'll forget you."

He was teasing her, she knew, but Arthur did not tease nearly as much as Dev did, so Ashara did not mind it.

"Promise you'll always keep it on you?"

"I promise, Ash."

O~O~O~O~O

Damn him. Damn him to all seven bloody hells.

She had tried to pray in the sept, but each of the Seven seemed to be against her. Ashara doubted justice or mercy still existed in her world. The Smith could not mend her. The Maiden seemed to mock her with the irony of her heartache. She could not bear to look at the Warrior. Before the Crone, she had tried to light a candle for guidance, but her hand shook so that she burned her fingers, and then the flame had snuffed out.

And the Stranger…oh, the Stranger had words of advice for her, dark and cold like the wind that had whispered to her in the tower. More than ever she wanted to follow—to be light and free even for a few moments—and the desire frightened her into fleeing the sept.

In her chambers, Ashara had tucked herself into a corner chair and not moved for hours. She stared at the pale wall, but red crept in at the edges of her vision. She could not remember a time when she had been so light-headed with pure rage, but she clung to the ball of flame in her throat, because the burning masked the sinking despair.

Arthur's shell cut into the palm of her hand, but that pain too felt cleansing.

Damn him.

Her gallant brother. Her good, honourable, fool of a brother. Oh, how easy it must have been to act as if he had no other option. How easy it must have been to stay at the tower and follow a dead man's orders. How easy—to say he had no other choice and convince himself of the notion.

Men always had choices. When they chose their own selfish pride over life, and family, and mundane responsibility, they sweetened the choice with talk of honour. She wanted to dig Arthur out of the ground and strangle him herself.

His last words to her were still clear in her ears, blended with the wind and rustling sand. It felt as if they had spoken barely hours ago, so vivid did his face and image still burn behind her eyes. Be careful on the road. I will see you soon. She almost laughed aloud.

Oh, they said the great Arthur Dayne was the perfect knight. He always did the right thing. He always acted with honour. He was the image of loyalty, and served his vows and his prince to his dying breath.

But what of all the words he had spoken to her? 'I will see you soon,' he had said, so confident, and then he had not given her a single thought until his blood covered the sand and the ink of his death was dry.

She did not know if he was overconfident that he could control that battle under the tower, or if he was simply eager to die carrying out Rhaegar's instructions to the letter. Likely, it was both. His pride won over all else. As it always had.

And then he'd had the gall to send Ned back with that bloody shell.

Ashara had never cared one whit if her brother was a true knight, or gallant, or the best swordsman in the Seven Kingdoms. She just wanted Arthur to be her brother. But she wasn't ever enough. When was a little sister ever enough for boys with big dreams? She had always known that, hadn't she? Ever since she was seven, and he had shrugged off the idea of missing home.

And yet it still hurt. Ashara reached blindly for the anger, holding it desperately to the sinking hole that was opening in her chest, trying to staunch the bleeding. She would not cry. Could not. If she let herself weep, she might never stop, which would not do. She had a delicate situation with Ned and the babe, and a castle to run before Dev returned.

Dev. She had written a shaking letter to him and sent off the raven, but she knew he would not return until his business in Sunspear was finished. Just as well. If she saw him too soon she might be tempted to strangle him as well.

She could already see his resigned frown when he read her letter. There would be no shock or anger in his grief, only his cold acceptance of the inevitable. Every man must make his choices. Dev had accepted Arthur's long ago, and never once tried to dissuade him from it, for all that he was the only one who might have changed Arthur's mind.

She felt herself shaking again. Good. Anger was good. Anger was hot and alive. The alternative was like those nights on Dragonstone: damp that chilled through the bones, as if one could never be warm again.

And Lyrie. Her poor baby sister. She would grow up with only the cool, erratic humour of their oldest brother, and whatever scraps of tenderness Ashara could manage to scrape from the shell of her being. Ashara did not think she could ever find it in herself to comfort another again.