Back in the council chambers once more, with men bellowing orders around her, Ashara absently ran her thumb along the flat of a blade in her sleeve. It was smooth and cool under her hand, but she swore she could still feel the slick lifeblood of the men she had killed.

Had this particular knife gone into the throat or into the skull? Her fingers traced up to the hilt and found the two nicks in the grip. Ah, so her favourite then. This knife had sliced open the artery on the first assassin's neck. Perhaps there was dried blood on the grip…but no, Ned had wiped both clean before handing them back to her.

Did that make four men now? No, but it must be five, because the baker's son had died from an infection ten days after. Ashara had gone alone through the alleyways to find out the truth. He had deserved the suffering, but Ashara could not wipe their faces from her mind.

A lifetime ago, when Elia had been betrothed to Rhaegar, they had all come to King's Landing so that the future queen could be introduced to court. Had Ashara been seventeen then? A child, really, though she had thought herself so wise about the world.

The Red Keep had been stifling and oppressive, for all that the halls were wide and the windows reached to the skies. The king truly was a mad beast, and Ashara had not known it was possible to lose feeling in her legs from fear. She was with Elia and her other friends, but the castle walls seemed to close in on them, tighter each day, and though it was said the Red Keep was the one place in the city where the air was fresh, they often found it hard to breathe.

One day, reckless and naïve girls that they were, Jynessa Manwoody and Ashara had convinced Elia to sneak out of the castle. 'Just to explore all the wards,' they had said. Was Elia not at all curious? In passing, Rhaegar had told Elia of the tunnels he made use of, sneaking out to play harp for the crowds. Elia had reluctantly agreed. They had told none of the others, for Dyanna and Moriah would never agree to something so perilous, and Larra had recently broken her leg from a fall down the steps.

They had come out into the city and made their way through Fishmonger's square, cloaked in the garments they had pilfered from scullery maids. For half the day they wandered without incident, stopping to watch fire-eating dwarves perform and buy roasted chestnuts on the street corner. When they were winding through the alleys that spilled off the Muddy Way, however, they had been surrounded by a gang of eight young men, the leers on their faces leaving no doubt as to their intentions.

Ashara could not remember feeling any fear—only an annoyance at the unsavoury interruption to their outing. Jynny had been trained in the martial tradition of House Manwoody and wielded her metal-tipped, multi-tail flail as if it were an extension of her arm. At Sunspear, the master at arms had taught Ashara how to throw blades, and Oberyn had often challenged her to contests for who could hit the swaying straw-stuffed dummy most squarely in the throat.

Jynny had pushed Ashara and Elia behind her, and with the first swing of her whip had taken the eye out of the thugs' leader, making two of them flee at once. The remaining six had drawn daggers, shocked but too prideful to back down against young girls, but Jynny beat them back, injuring two before one came close enough to strike her with his blade. That was when Ashara had thrown hers, aiming at their throats as she had always practiced. She had felled two and hit the third in his shoulder before it dawned on her precisely what she'd done.

The three of them had picked gingerly over the bodies of the four men after the injured two had fled, then walked back to the keep in silence. Elia had not said a single word of rebuke for the sheer stupidity of their suggestion, but instead embraced them both, and thanked them for saving her life.

It was not until much later, alone in the dappled darkness of her chambers, that Ashara had scrunched herself into the corner, desperate to stop shaking from the cold that pierced her core. With little flicks of her arm, she had taken two lives that afternoon—lives squashed from this word, like ants beneath a shoe.. She had stared at her hands in the darkness until her eyes stung, seeing rusty, flaking blood dried into the grooves on her skin.

When she tried to sleep, she saw behind her eyelids the shocked looks of the grimy-faced men as red spurted from their leathery skin; the black-toothed grimace of one as he grappled at the gash in his neck; the slow, nearly graceful motion of the other as he, bemused, pulled the blade from his throat and examined it before collapsing.

In the early dawn, she had swallowed her pride and snuck into Jynny's chambers, and Ashara had let her friend kiss her and hold her for hours until she was thawed and warm once more. The following week, she had snuck out again—alone in the morning—and asked around in that alleyway until she learned that a butcher's son had recently been struck with a knife during a brawl of sorts, and died from infection.

That had been three lives on her conscience—three marks, black on her soul—and now here were two more. She had truly gotten better at throwing her blades in the intervening years, Ashara thought distantly. Oberyn had given her a knowing look when he had seen the bodies from the godswood, and she was certain there had been pride in his smirk.

Beside her, the boy Oberyn had carried back to the castle seemed to stir, but only frowned and did not regain consciousness.

When she and Ned had emerged into the inner bailey of the keep, the sounds of melee fighting had mostly ceased. Baratheon and Stark men-at-arms were standing around scattered bodies and bound men dressed in the same black the men in the godswood had worn.

Jon Arryn had found them along with Ashara's Dornish guards, all their faces etched with relief that she was unharmed. Ashara had sent them back to the ship to fetch Yli for Ned, then followed Lord Arryn into the council chamber.

The entire castle was in an uproar, and they soon learned that small groups of men in black had scaled the walls in the night and set upon the men-at-arms, who had not had training in guarding the Red Keep and did not know its weaknesses.

They learned, too, that riots had broken out all over King's Landing, with bands of thugs setting fires, and dirty, bloody brawls breaking out in the alleyways and squares. The city was already stretched on a razor's edge from the recent invasion and the presence of so many armies. The riots were like sparks on dry kindling, setting forth explosions of violence that still roared through the streets.

When the bodies of their assassins had been brought from the godswood and searched, they had found bags of black and red fabric, filled with coins. The few survivors who had climbed the walls could only say that masked men with uncultured accents had approached them in the twilight, giving them money to arm themselves and stir chaos in the castle.

Ned's and Lord Arryn's faces had been hard with rage, and Ned had wrapped his furs tight around her, handed her a goblet of something warm, then slipped away to find King Robert before she could protest.

A short while later, Oberyn, Paten and Lord Manwoody had been ushered into the council chamber as well, each bleeding from various limbs, Ser Paten limping. They had come to blows with Lannister soldiers in the fighting den, and taken the fight outside, where they were soon set upon by black-clad men.

The fight had soon turned into a jumbled brawl teeming with humanity, and two Dornish soldiers had been killed, while most others wore some form of injury or other.

Oberyn had a dark-haired boy of perhaps ten slung over his shoulder, and had settled him next to Ashara on her couch in the back of the chamber. Ashara's mind was too sluggish to ask any questions.

"Keep an eye on this one would you?" he'd said, grimacing at the deep slash on his face as he scanned her up and down for injury. "He's like a feral cat. Came out of nowhere and saved my life before hitting his head."

Ashara had nodded dumbly, hearing his words but not fully understanding. The boy's taught face was grimy and battered, his hair was matted, and his ribs showed through his thin shirt. He smelled of sweat and blood and unwashed humanity, but Ashara took Ned's cloak and covered him with it, hoping Ned would not mind. She herself slid close to the roaring fireplace nearby.

Ned returned with Robert some time later, and after Yli had tended his shoulder and all the attendants had left the chamber, he and Oberyn told the gathered lords of the attacks they had faced. Robert was clearly still drunk, but Jon Arryn had given Ned a pointed look when he mentioned that he had been with Ashara in the godswood. Tywin Lannister, who had slipped unnoticed into the council chamber with a few of his lords, had pinned his pale green eyes so violently to Ashara that she thought his gaze might burn a hole right through her face. Even with the purple shadow on his jaw, he still made her hair stand on end.

"My lords, Your Grace," mused Lord Roland Crakehall, fingering the black and red cloth coin purses found on the assassins and thugs. "It is clear that the attacks are by Targaryen loyalists."

All eyes turned to Tywin Lannister's vassal, and it was Robert who spoke, anger dispelling his drunken slur.

"What? Explain!"

"Your Grace, these are Targaryen colours, and it would only be natural that there are still rogue Targaryen elements loose in the city. They sought to destabilise your rule, no doubt."

Robert's fist came down hard on the table, but before he could say more, Lord Hoster Tully was shaking his head.

"Surely the Targaryens would not give out purses bearing their own colours to the thugs they hired. It is as good as announcing their identity."

"Perhaps, Lord Tully, that is precisely what they intended to do," said Tywin Lannister, fingering the fabric. "They wish to show you, Your Grace, that they can still cause mayhem if they so wish. They did manage to scale the walls and find their way to the godswood—"

"This is PIGSHIT!" bellowed Robert, bolting from his chair and topping it with a thud. "Where in seven hells did these loyalists come from? I thought we scoured the city! And the castle?" He turned to one of his lords and gestured wildly with his arms. "Uncle Don?"

The greying man stood and paced, equally agitated.

"We took out all the places loyalists might be hiding, and my men have been personally patrolling the streets. We've heard damn nothing before this day of any unrest or Targaryen elements. Bo—ahem, Your Grace, I don't see how this could have happened."

"But it's bloody happened! How—"

"Your Grace." It was Jon Arryn who interrupted, and Robert snapped his head to his Hand.

"Your Grace, while Lord Lannister does make a fair prediction, we have no proof either way. It could be that whoever hired these thugs simply wanted us to believe they were Targaryen loyalists, and so deliberately used their colours."

"Yes, I do believe Lord Arryn has the right of it," said Lord Tully, casting his eyes over the Dornish party before pinning them on Ashara, who could not help thinking distantly that surely she had not done anything to warrant so many malicious glances in one night.

"Perhaps there are those," he continued, "who would have the king feel he is still under Targaryen threat, and should therefore concede quickly to terms of peace."

Ashara heard her own voice catch in her throat, and Ned gave her a horrified look. It was clear that most around the table understood exactly what Hoster Tully meant.

Even Lord Manwoody understood the insinuation, and in an instant, he pounded his fist into the table and leaned menacingly over the table, seeming not to feel his injured leg.

"What in bleeding hells is that supposed to mean, you stinking fish?"

"You forget yourself, my lord!"

"Lord Manwoody!" This was Ned and Jon Arryn joined by Paten, whose own splinted leg was propped straight in front of him.

Reluctantly, Lord Manwoody was coaxed to sit back down, though the look between Oberyn and Lord Tully was poisonous.

"Lord Tully," Ned began, obviously trying for a conciliatory tone but failing, "surely you cannot mean that Dorne—"

"Lord Stark, defending your future cronies already, I see," Tully sneered.

"Hoster, please—" This was Lord Arryn, but Oberyn had stood, interrupting.

"Lord Tully, you will forgive my Lord Manwoody's outburst, I trust." Oberyn's voice was low and smooth like the underside of a snake. Ashara shivered. She had known him long enough to realize the danger it meant.

"He was merely angered by your…insinuations against all of Dorne. Surely you did not mean any insult by your words. We all misspeak at times."

Ashara's eyes narrowed. Did Hoster Tully know how close Oberyn was to reaching out and choking the life from him, damn the consequences?

But Hoster Tully only scoffed.

"I spoke only truth. Whether you find insult, Prince Oberyn, is up to you."

"Lord Tully—"

"No, Lord Arryn, we shall allow Lord Tully his delusions," said Oberyn, walking towards the man.

"Delusions my—"

"For you see," Oberyn continued, still advancing on Tully, whose eyes were narrowing, "you seem to have forgotten that I myself was attacked and injured, my men were attack—"

"We can all put up a good show—"

Oberyn laughed, a menacing sound.

"How dare you? You have the audacity to claim I have somehow planned this? They injured me, they injured my lords, and they nearly killed a woman who is a sister to me—how dare you?"

Suddenly he was only a hair's breadth from Tully's face, his hand digging into the old man's shoulder. The sound of blades sliding from sheaths echoed in the chamber as Tully men-at-arms stood and half drew their swords, and Oberyn's men lunged forth with their spears tilted forward.

"Oi!" bellowed King Robert. All froze.

"This is fucking treason! Calm the fuck down and put your blades away before I have all your heads on pikes! Gods' balls, I'm the one who should be fucking pissed off. Sit the fuck down!"

All complied, though not before Ashara heard Lord Manwoody muttering that Hoster Tully like as not sent those men after her for her impending marriage. Yet, before any more could be said, running footsteps echoed in the hall outside, and a young Baratheon guard rushed to the doorway, gasping for air.

"Your Grace! Your Grace!"

King Robert motioned him inside. "Breathe, man, you look like the Stranger's nipping your arse."

The young man panted for a moment, hands on knees, before bowing to the king, his face suddenly white.

"Your Grace, I come from the prison tower. All our men there have had their heads bashed in, and Ser Gregor Clegane is nowhere to be found."

O~O~O~O~O

For all the years that Ashara had spent in Sunspear, not once had she seen a sane man so possessed with rage as Robert Baratheon was in the moments that followed. The new king had flipped the big table on its side, his face flushed a dark crimson, his shouts filling every crevice of the room. Even Oberyn, who had seized Lord Tywin by his shirt before other lords had pried them apart, did not look nearly so crazed in his anger.

"—bloody FUCKING incompetence—what in fuck's name is the man—give chase NOW!" King Robert was still bellowing orders and insults in tandem, and now the vehement accusations the Dornishmen hurled at the Lannister men and their returning insults layered atop the king's voice.

No one dared draw weapons again, but hands grappled at throats, and grunts of pain came from those struck in the heat of argument, especially as King Robert no longer looked concerned with checking the fighting.

Amid the sudden havoc, Ashara had not realised she'd bolted from her chair and let her goblet fall to smithereens around her feet until she swayed and stumbled into the wall beside her.

Get a grip on yourself, she ordered. You will not faint like some delicate leaf.

Across the chamber, she caught Ned's glance as he pried apart two red-faced, shouting men. He made several steps towards her before he came to his senses and stopped himself.

She shook her head at him, though the mix of anger and shock and dismay on his face did enough to calm her nerves somewhat. Yet her head still spun, numb as she was with her own shock and confusion.

Escaped. Escaped. The man who had forced his monstrous body on Elia, then caved in her skull. Escaped.

How in seven hells had this happened? Her eyes turned of their own accord to the Lannister men—to their lord, who sat glaring at the melee, protected by his vassals. Had this been Clegane taking advantage of the chaos to escape his fight? Or had Tywin Lannister orchestrated all, to make sure Clegane had no chance to accuse him the next day? Ashara could swear there was something like satisfaction beneath those pale green eyes, and it made her stomach turn.

Her whole body hurt as it shook, from fury or dread she did not know, and she wrapped the furs tighter around herself, for there was nothing she could do. It was a maddening feeling, this helplessness.

But perhaps...

For a deranged moment, the urge swooped like a vulture into her mind. What if she hurled her knife into Tywin Lannister's throat at this moment? Oh, her life would be forfeit, but the vile cat would succumb to justice, and the humiliating stories they would tell of the great lion of Casterly Rock forever after…Tywin Lannister, felled by the blade of a Dornish maid.

The thought left her as quickly as it had come, and reason returned. She squeezed the blade in her hand until it had surely drawn blood. There would be no more killing tonight.

From the side of her eye, she saw Jon Arryn smash a goblet against the wall, attempting for some semblance of order. Had chaos not reigned supreme, he would have caught the attention of the lords, but as it was, few heard him over their own shouts.

Not allowing herself time for thought, Ashara strode to a side-table where an empty pitcher still stood, picked it up, and hurled the entire thing into the fire.

A great crackling boom, then all were silent, some staring at her as if she had lost her wits.

"My lords, Your Grace. I believe Lord Arryn requests your heed."

Jon Arryn managed to restore some semblance of order and called for discussions for how to proceed with this news, though now the accusations were beginning to escalate once more. Robert seemed to have deflated—it would seem his evening of drinking had caught up to him—and was leaning against the table, rubbing absently at his temple.

Ned still sat straight as a tree to Robert's left, unmoving, jaw tight.

Ashara felt her skull was filled with bees. All was whirring and confused in her thoughts—even the outrage had fled, replaced by a limb-numbing impuissance.

"Explain this, then, Lord Tywin." Oberyn was snarling. "How is it that riots break out and assassins scale the castle walls the day you are accused of my sister's murder? How convenient, that they stole attention away from the prison tower."

"Careful, Prince Oberyn," Tywin Lannister all but drawled. "Such implications are baseless."

"After this morning, you expect me to believe they are baseless? Do you take this whole room for fools?" Several lords, including Lord Tully, shifted uncomfortably in their seats. Ashara felt her own jaw tighten, and indignant rage rose like hot smoke from a fire, clogging her chest and making breathing onerous.

"Armory Lorch's words are not evidence, Prince Oberyn. They were the desperate words of one dying criminal, and I have already told you. I knew nothing of the violence against your sister and her children, just as I knew nothing of the events tonight. My men are helping to subdue much of the rioting as we speak."

"Lorch's accusations would not be the words of only one criminal had Clegane not conveniently escaped!"

"Clegane was no fool. He saw the chance and took it. Perhaps your reputation for foul fighting precedes you."

Oberyn narrowed his eyes. "So you do know what they say of me. If you were a wise man you would not test those rumours."

"Is that a threat, my lord?"

"Only friendly counsel. You truly stand before us all and say you had no part in your bannerman escaping the prison? That Gregor Clegane fought his way out on his own and killed ten armed men with his bare hands? I believe not a word!" There were sounds of assent among the Dornish lord.

Tywin Lannister only scoffed and sat back imperiously in his chair.

"Baseless accusations all. They did call him the Mountain Who Rides. Eight feet tall…more giant than man, really. Naturally, I deny any involvement, and it is insulting you would think I obstructed justice. It is...understandable that you are upset with these events, Prince Oberyn, but the search parties will surely do their best. This is an event no one could have predicted."

The danger was blazing in full force in Oberyn's eyes, and Ashara could almost see into his mind, see exactly how he would like to string Tywin Lannister up by the toes and gut him like a pig.

Jon Arryn has seen it too, and just how close Oberyn was once more standing to Lannister. Perhaps wishing to avoid any more violent outbursts, he looked between the two men and made to rise. Yet before he could speak, the sound of a chair scraping on the floor cut him off, and Ned stood over the table, his face like stone, his jagged eyes almost black in the shadows.

"Lord Lannister, have you no shame?" His fists were clenched, and even from the back Ashara could see the veins jumping in his forearm."

"All present in the room knows exactly how events played out, both during the Sack and tonight. You have ordered grave acts, murdered an innocent princess and two babes in arms, and tonight you are responsible for dozens more deaths through your hired thugs. To avoid your bannerman implicating you once more, you have committed treason by helping him escape. You have endangered the life of your king and all the other lords, and that is to say nothing of your attempt to murder the woman I am to marry. So I ask again, have you no shame, my lord?"

Silence, as if in a tomb.

For long moments Ashara did not know if she wished to embrace him or slap him for his blunt candour. Finally, Tywin Lannister also rose.

"These are grave accusations you have laid out against me, Lord Stark. I must say, your inventive mind impresses me."

Ned opened his mouth to protest, but Lannister spoke over him.

"I will let these insults go, as the…folly of untutored youth. My words to you remain the same. You have no proof for your fanciful story—none, save, perhaps, the words of a criminal, mad with the loss of blood and impending death and…who knows what else. I suggest, my lord, that you exercise caution when speaking in future. I cannot imagine how the North will survive if their lord utters only insults."

Ned looked mutinous, and Ashara feared now that he, not Oberyn, would strike Lord Tywin. But Jon Arryn's knotted hand was now on his shoulder, his white head bent near Ned's ear, whispering. A tense heartbeat, then Oberyn turned and said something under his breath to Ned as well, his hand coming to clasp Ned's arm.

For a moment more, Ned stood frozen. Then his eyes found her, and despite the firestorm building in her chest, she managed to nod at him and offer a little smile. She hoped he understood.

Ned's jaw worked, a savage glint in his eyes, but in the end, he did understand. With a curt bow to those around the table, he dashed his chair against the wall and stormed out the room.

"My lords," said Lord Arryn, when Ned's footsteps had disappeared down the hall. His voice was soft but commanding, and Ashara found herself hoping King Robert would have this man advise him for decades to come. "These are trying circumstances indeed. I understand that many have been wronged, but please. We are all here for peace, are we not? I hope that we can find a way forward that will satisfy all."

In the end, Lord Tywin had offered to settle grievances in a way worthy of his Lannister forebears: reparations, in the form of gold, paid to Dorne for twenty years to atone for the crime of his failure to control his men. Oberyn's face had turned black as death, and he had exploded once more, for how dare Tywin Lannister think his sister's life could be repaid with mere coin?

But Ashara had no more anger to summon, only a bone-deep despondency for the realities of the world. This would be the extent of the justice she could gain for Elia. What was the other choice? Return to war? And what more was war than a trial by combat using thousands of innocent lives? Where was the justice in that?

Oberyn looked on the verge of throwing the offer back in Lannister's face—Lord Manwoody had already suggested vehemently that he do so—but Lord Toland and Paten had whispered furiously in his ear. From her seat on the couch, Ashara caught his eye, and hoped he saw in her glance the promise he'd made only hours ago. I will do as Doran would. And Prince Doran would accept these terms in a heartbeat. The drought of winter had returned, and the Lannisters were offering enough coin to buy food for thousands.

Finally, as the night sky through the windows began paling to dawn, Oberyn, simmering with anger, had grudgingly agreed to Lord Tywin's terms, and Jon Arryn seemed to deflate with tangible relief.

Later, she joined Oberyn at the stern of their ship to watch the hazy sunrise.

"That boy," Ashara asked. "What exactly do you intend to do with him?"

They had brought him to a small cabin, and Old Yli had washed him twice with her strongest soaps. Oberyn had told her that the boy named Bronn had been on the receiving end of a beating from two older boys when Oberyn and Paten had come upon them in the street. Oberyn had pulled the boys off, then given Bronn one of his knives and half his purse, so he could get his wounds seen to, and perhaps a good meal besides.

Later, as they had brawled with the Lannister men, one had come at Oberyn's back with a dagger, and young Bronn had descended from a balcony and broken the man's neck. He had promptly toppled over with the dead man and hit his head hard on the cobblestones. They would not know how he fared until he woke.

Oberyn shrugged.

"As I say, the boy saved my life. If he survives, he can train with me to be a knight. He's got a rather smart mouth. His company should be entertaining."

They had stood in silence for a long while then until finally, Ashara spoke again.

"I will help you. Whatever revenge you and Doran have planned, I will help you. I cannot stand knowing Tywin Lannister walks his castle, satisfied he has won. Whatever it is you wish me to do, I will do it."

Oberyn gave her a sad smile then and chucked her under the chin. Instinctively, she shot him the same harassed look she had perfected as a child, and he laughed.

"We have talked of our plans for vengeance, my brother and I. He long suspected Tywin Lannister ordered the murders. Besides now searching for Gregor Clegane, our plans have not changed." His eyes found Ashara's, and the vehemence in them made her want to look away. She did not.

"I know what I said of justice, but your revenge does not sound so bad this morning."

"No, Ashara. You were right. What Doran and I have planned…I don't think it is what Elia would have wanted. This—Lorch killed in combat, Lannister paying Dorne so we can better feed the smallfolk—this, Elia would be happy with."

"Oberyn…"

"I will not tell you any more. This is my vengeance, and Doran's. It is the ambition of House Martell now. You have already done more than the ties of love and friendship demanded of you, and now you must go and live your life.

"But—"

"This Ned Stark seems a good sort, Ash. If I am not mistaken, last night he bled for you. Go north, live, have children and help your husband navigate being a lord. He will need it. Think no more of this. Elia would have my head if I embroiled you in our schemes, for they would sit poorly on your conscience."

She felt her brows knit, even as the tight knot of dread seemed to loosen in her stomach. Some little voice in her wanted to insist, but the greater part knew that this was a gift Oberyn was offering her, and that she should take it with open palms. She laid a tentative hand on his.

"Half my heart is always in Dorne. With you, with Larra and the others. If you ever have true need of me—"

"I will tell you. You can be assured of that. Doran and I are not so generous as to let that scheming mind of yours go completely."

O~O~O~O~O

Despite the tension that seemed to cling like soot about King's Landing during the next days, King Robert had insisted that, with the peace fully negotiated, all resources would be put forward to a grand wedding feast. If the realm was not so fractured and ill-at-ease, Ned had told her during one of their walks in the godswood, Robert would have ordered a three-day tourney besides.

Ashara had not been able to help her wry smile.

"I do hope the king does not intend to keep spending as he does," she said under her breath, for guards now trailed them from afar during these walks. "The treasury may be full now, but gold dragons do not appear from thin air."

Ned shook his head, looking assured.

"Jon is with him. I am not worried. He will rein in Robert's spending and his worse instincts. As he has been since we were eight."

He smiled at her then, pulling them beneath a tree.

"And fortunately, I do not have to contend with any of it. I cannot wait to leave this city and never return."

Ashara quite agreed. King's Landing had not endeared itself to her over the years.

"When shall I meet Lord Dayne?" Ned had asked, and Ashara noticed he was careful not to say the word 'brother' around her. Though she was half embarrassed that even this small thing could cut like a blade, his consideration warmed her.

"If you do not mind coming to the ship, then you should return with me today. He intends only to come ashore for our wedding. The air in the city will do his lungs no favours."

Dev had arrived by ship two days following the escape of Gregor Clegane, ostensibly to attend her wedding, but Ashara knew that Doran had sent him. No doubt Doran had heard the news of Clegane's escape within hours and wished to prevent Oberyn from any rash action. Naturally, Gregor Clegane had not been found, nor the real force behind the attacking thugs identified. It was no matter. All on their ship knew it had been Tywin Lannister pulling the puppet strings behind it all, and every time Ashara's mind wandered to the matter, she wished to shatter goblets against walls.

The days before her wedding seemed to blend together into one. Larra had somehow requisitioned a seamstress and her assistants, and each morning they came to work on a new gown for the wedding—a detail that had not even entered Ashara's mind. The women fawned over her—marvelling at her eyes and her hair, whispering about her face behind their hands—and Ashara was reminded of how acutely uncomfortable such interactions always were.

Larra had rolled her eyes as she'd always done.

"Would that I had your problem," she said dryly. "Puck up, Ash. It's no good. Even with that scowl on your face, you are still exquisite."

If Ned had not been recruited by Jon Arryn to take care of some military detail or other, he would send word, and they would meet in the godswood, walking and planning their life together. They did not talk about death then—not about Lyanna or Elia or Arthur—and in particular, never about Galina. Instead, they talked of Ned's provisions for Winter, of the route they would take back to Winterfell and the people who would be in their household. Mundane things, perhaps, but Ashara found she wished to talk of the mundane for hours.

The only singular event in the week was when she had asked Dev to send Allyria north, if not right away, then at the very least in a couple years time, when winter truly ended. She had not thought there would be any debate over the matter. He was not made to care for children—he had said so himself—and his only objection to her sister going north should have been her health.

Yet when she had spoken, Dev had roundly refused her: not during winter, and not during summer either. Allyria was going to stay at Starfall until she married, and there would be no more discussion.

He had not given her a direct reason, and Ashara had grown so exasperated with the years of pent-in frustrations that their simple discussion had erupted into the most vicious quarrel she'd ever had with Dev. Finally, he had thrown up his hands, his throat hoarse.

"Damn it to seven hells, Ashara, must you make me voice it? I cannot bear to be the only one left in the bloody castle!"

She had said no more of Allyria coming to live with her.

On the day of the wedding, Old Yli and Larra had spent hours arranging her hair, applying kohl to her eyes and stain to her cheeks, and generally making a fuss about her. All the while, Old Yli, for all that she knew of Ashara's miscarriage the year before, took the role of instructing her on what to expect from her wedding night, and Larra had been wholly incapable of keeping her laughter contained.

Dev had walked her into the sept, for there was no weirwood tree in King's Landing, but Ned did not seem to mind. "We will kneel before the weirwood at Winterfell," he had told her. "For now, a wedding in a sept is as good as any other."

The vows had come to her lips almost unbidden, as if someone else entirely had said them from outside her body, and when Ned had placed his cloak over her shoulders, Ashara thought for a moment that she must be living some dream. How many times had she dreamed of this in the past year, only to wake and know that it could no longer be? Now the similar fear of waking stirred for a moment, raising its cold head, but Ned had pulled her into him and kissed her, and he had been solid, and warm, and true.

And later, up in their wedding chamber with all the festivities and dancing and toasts behind them, Ned had kissed every inch of her fevered skin, and she knew that nothing had ever been so real.

O~O~O~O~O

Morning light snuck through the gaps in the drapes of their marriage chamber, and Ned squinted into the brightness. For a moment all was confused and bleary, but then he turned his head, and Ashara's dark hair tickled his nose. He looked down at her, serene in her sleep, so fair and lovely he felt his heart wrench.

My wife, he thought in wonder, and for some moments he could almost pretend all the misfortune that followed Harrenhal had not torn apart the fabric of his life. This was as it should have been from the start, he and Ash married, sharing their bed and their lives for the decades to come, and for just an instant, all was right.

Then, unbidden, Lady Catelyn's tentative face flashed in his mind, followed by Hoster Tully's blood-veined eyes. His goodfather had not stayed in the capital for Ned's wedding, and had left Ned a terse note indicating, amid thinly veiled threats for his grandson's safety and position, that he would send Robb north in due time.

Ned shook his head fiercely, trying to dispel Tully's voice bouncing insistently in his skull.

My wife, he thought again, but this time the insistent guilt crept up his throat.

"Where have you gone, Ned? Your thoughts seem a thousand miles away."

Her voice startled him back from his freefall into the darkness. He had not noticed her waking, and he turned to see her bright eyes peering curiously at him.

He shook his head again.

"Sorry to wake you. It's nothing to worry you."

"If it worries you, it ought to worry me," she said, her voice still husky from sleep. "That was what our vows meant last night, no?'

For some moments he struggled against his better judgement, but she did not turn those purple eyes from him, and he stood no chance.

"Hoster Tully spoke to me the morning of the trial by combat and accused me of…well, it matters little. I keep hearing his words in my head, for all that his accusations are ridiculous."

"I see." She turned towards the canopy. "Lady Catelyn no longer walks this earth. You vowed to be hers until the end of her days. Marrying me now breaks no vows."

"No, that…that is not the only reason. I fear I did not treat her as I should have."

Ashara frowned.

"I cannot imagine you being anything but considerate and kind."

Ned pinched the bridge of his nose.

"I tried my best to be kind, but…I went to her wedding bed with my mind full of you. I could not help it, but it was still despicable of me."

He felt her warm palm on his arm, her heat like a balm. She opened her mouth as if to say something, but then shut it again, her cheeks colouring.

"What were you going to say?

She shook her head.

"Ashara?"

"No, it was callous and spiteful and I am wicked for even thinking it. You shan't hear it from my mouth."

He looked at her intently, studying her.

"You were going to say that she likely thought of Brandon at the same time."

Ashara's entire face flushed pink, and she turned away from him.

"I did not know you'd become so good at reading my face."

"I fear I have not. 'Tis only a logical thought. She had known him as her betrothed for years but never met me. And you are right. I have no doubt she did think of him."

She turned back to him almost tentatively, and he laid a hand on the dip of her waist.

"And yet you cannot help the guilt?"

"No, I cannot. I know it's all beyond reason, but still, it festers."

Ashara let out a long breath, settling back into the pillows.

"It vexes me that she still occupies your thoughts, though I would think you heartless if she did not. Feeling defies reason, and sometimes I wonder if we would all suffer less if we had hearts of stone."

Ned frowned, drawing her close so she was tucked into his chest.

"I only know that I am glad my own heart is flesh and blood. For all its suffering, its joys make my life more than just duty."

He felt her eyes on him again, considering him, and the conclusions she made must have pleased her, for she smiled and pressed a slow kiss into his neck.

"I will love both of the boys as my own, I swear it," she said. "You need not feel you are doing Lady Catelyn any wrong."

"I know you will. When I saw you with Jon, I thought my heart would burst. I have no doubt you will be a mother to them both."

"And the rest…we bear our burdens and carry on, I suppose. I only know that mine are lighter when you are holding me like this."

O~O~O~O~O

"You will come visit soon when winter ends up there in the North."

She and Dev stood on the docks of the Red Keep, the sea wind whipping their hair over their faces. She had taken her leave of all the others, and Dev had been the last to embrace her goodbye.

"I will Dev," she smiled. "You know I will."

"And don't tarry with children. I expect your firstborn to come live with me once they're old enough."

Ashara raised a brow and couldn't help a surprised laugh.

"Since when do you like children, to be actively seeking mine? I should think Lyrie will be enough work for you."

Her brother gave her a patronising smirk.

"You're right, of course. Children do baffle me. Nonetheless. You'll foster your first child with me."

She narrowed her eyes. He was being rather insistent for a situation still in the abstract.

"What are you up to?"

"I should think I'm being rather obvious, my brilliant sister. Now that you're marrying, I won't have to. Your first child is going to be my heir."

She felt her mouth drop open, and it took her a moment to remember herself and shut her jaw with a snap. Dev was what?

"Well, to be precise, you'll be my heir—you are my heir—but I don't intend to die much earlier than you. Come Ash, don't look so shocked. You did know Starfall would go to you eventually."

"I knew no such thing! I always imagined you would marry, that it was only a matter of time!"

Her brother had the gall to look earnestly shocked.

"You're telling me you never knew about Pateck?" he asked, naming the Braavosi trader who had been his paramour since Ashara had understood the concept.

"No, I know about that," she ground out. "I just assumed you would marry anyway."

"Oh, my winsome sister, to be completely honest, I don't even think I could bed with a woman. My plan was always for you to marry, and I would get one of your children as my heir. It's not exactly uncommon." His smile deepened.

"Now, give me another kiss and be on your way. You're holding everyone up."

Ashara was well aware. Ned and the boatman had been in the dinghy for some time now.

She bit her lip and kissed her brother again, then held onto him tight, the only brother she had left.

"You really intend for my child to inherit Starfall? A child who will be raised a Stark and so far away?"

"Are you saying their mother is going to start worshiping the Old Gods and eating bland food?"

Ashara rolled her eyes. "Of course not, but my children will all grow up worshipping as their father does."

Dev shrugged. "We're hardly fanatics, Ash. I'll send you up a septa and your children will learn the basics."

"I'm sure she will be right at home in the great sept Ned plans to build at Winterfell," Ashara said, unable to help herself giving him a sideways look.

Dev waved his hand. "Winterfell is one of the biggest castles in the realm. You can find an empty room to paste some likenesses on the walls, surely."

"Dev—"

"Ashara. This is the best way, trust me. Any child you raise will be as Dayne as they come, and the worthiest heir for our house. And besides. They will be fostered with me. They won't escape my terrible influence."

"Oh Dev." And suddenly Ashara didn't know if she was laughing or crying, and wanted desperately to spend another day in which her brother teased her thus. Would he be alright, at Starfall with the ghosts of Arthur wandering the halls? And when would she see him again?

In a flash of impulse, Ashara reached into her robes and pulled out the little shell she had given Arthur on the beach all those years ago, pressing it into Dev's hand.

"What's this?"

Ashara bit her lip against the stabbing pain that had yet to dull.

"I made our brother wear it for many years. I…I am not certain why I think you should have it now."

He stared long at the pearlescent shell, gleaming in the sunlight, then looked at her, the rims of his eyes turning red.

"I think you are right. I would take this, and keep it with me as Arthur did."

Ashara sucked in a sharp breath, for she had not expected the ache that bloomed in her very being to be at once so sweet and bitter. She managed a laugh that perhaps turned to a sob, and looked away to compose herself.

"You mustn't forget to write, and to make Lyrie write. And you must take care of yourself, you hear me? I will be very vexed with you if I find you the worse for wear next time I see you."

"I don't doubt it. Take care and dress warm up there, Ahatu." She nodded, and he kissed her forehead.

"Goodbye Ahu-i."

"Goodbye Ash."

With one last smile at her grinning brother, she turned toward where her husband waited, and ran to meet her new life.

A/N: Someone commented a few chapters back that a dead Gregor would mean less trouble in the future. I mean, lol yes, I do agree, but do I seem like the kind of person to spare these characters trouble? Clegane the Outlaw is going to give a lot of people a lot of headaches for years to come. Gotta keep everyone on their toes, you know?

A very huge thanks to a reddit user called r/stormrunner74 for commenting this idea when the premise of this story was just a plot bunny. Idk if they're reading this I do hope they are :) And thanks to my two betas!

And of course, thanks to everyone for reading this far. I realise this prologue has been rather…long, and it's like, not really the premise I promised in the blurb. That will begin now. Thanks for sticking around, and I would love to hear suggestions about the future direction of this story!

Oh, and just a clarification: Ned is not going to claim Jon is Ashara's child. And he's not going to have him legitimised at this point. Like in canon, he's going to refuse to talk about Jon's mother, period. I've gotten a few comments about this, so I'm sorry to disappoint. Both Ned and Ash have a whole tangle of logistical and emotional reasons for doing this, though as you'll see, they can't agree on what to tell Jon either.

If you want me to give you all my reasons in a rant I could, but the interesting bits I plan to weave into the story anyway, and the rest is just meh. Obviously we all have different views on this, and for me, keeping Jon a Snow and not telling anyone any specifics about his mother would fit Ned's motivations and character best, even in this AU.