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Highgarden was an extravagant place, nothing of it's like could be found in Dorne if one were to ignore Sunspear, seat of House Nymeros Martell. It had several tiers of walls that guarded her center, a briar labyrinth between one of them. It was ridiculous she thought of how much hidden groves, and courtyards there were; the gardens filled with abundant fruits and flowers whose number could be likened to the amount of gold and silver within the Westerlands.
The dining hall was large and spacious, enough to hold a small army if needed. The food that was served to them was utterly bewildering in their artisanship and make. She noticed how much of it was cooked in the Dornish style. Among the cauldrons of soups, plates of vegetables and the dazzling array of meat offered. None got her attention more than the roast of horse cooked with dragon peppers. She smiled with glee at how many of the Reach lords in attendance were aghast by the queerness of such a meal. Though the choice of horse was odd, the meat was cooked in the traditional Dornish way and was delicious in its spiciness.
It reminded her of home, and made her heart heavy with the knowledge she was many leagues away from it.
She liked it here at first; she liked how there was almost an endless torrential pour of knights, minstrels, mummers, acrobats and all sorts of colorful characters that she discovered by the day.
The Lords of Highgarden as well matched her visitors in their eccentricities.
Mance Tyrell was a mild and often dull man, who nonetheless was amusing in his antics. She remembered distinctly how the pot-bellied Lord bowed so deeply that his weight almost caused him to fall over. He tried so hard to be the affable and generous host. She thought it cruel for her to find such an oafish man laughable.
His mother however was a different case, always scowling with little patience for her son's actions. She had heard from Lady Alerie that she had become far thornier then usual after the Rebellion. She thought her son mad for giving Houses Hightower and Florent a mere slap on the wrist for their treason. Indeed, her scorn had spilled over to Mace's Lady-wife due to her former name being Alerie Hightower.
Their children were different, Willas was a shy lad and Galan a bit less so. The second son was a bit fatter than the rest of the children, but was also the boldest. He once tried to make off with her undergarments, during one her strolls with Lady Alerie in the gardens. Alerie had beaten his behind raw, but he was content because she had allowed the daring boy to keep her unmentionables because she was impressed by his audacity.
Willas was studious, most likely he would in a later time fashion himself a collar of chains within the Citadel. He had the sharpness of mind to be a Maester and Mace had enough sons.
Loras and Margery were too young for her to recall anything about, Loras had just celebrated his second nameday whilst Margery was about to celebrate her first. They were adorable the both of them in the scant times she had met them. Alerie often cooed over them.
Alerie was a dignified and refined woman. She had accepted long ago that she wasn't going to be the premier Lady of Highgarden until the death of Lady Olenna Tyrell. She did not seem to hold ill-will against her good mother. She knew her place.
The Tyrells were an interesting family.
Yet they were still Reachmen.
Their family and their bannermen had warred with Dorne for many years, across countless of generations. The blood spilled between them was deep, so why then was Prince Doran Martell so interested in them?
She had thought of her lord's plans ever since she received that letter at Starfall. Many of the other Dornish Houses, mostly the Stony Dornishmen were instructed by their Prince to find as many Reach wives and husbands as they could. Many of them found the request queer, but none found it suspicious excepting House Yronwood and even then they complied.
When she first arrived her searching for a Tyrell cousin as a husband, she knew after her conversation with Lady Olenna that she was collaborating with the Lord of Sunspear. Both wishing for the Reach and Dorne to strengthen their ties together.
She could only imagine just what sort of scheme they had.
Eating and enjoying her horse roast, she felt trepidation as she looked across the table towards a certain man.
He wore a grey steel breastplate; his arms and legs covered in mail and boiled leather, as if he were a mere soldier and not a high Lord; a great sword in a scabbard strung across his back, Heartsbane; his hair was ashen grey, cropped near his ears; his body lean and built like an auroch.
The lords seated beside him seemed to be quiet, in stark contrast to the bawdy singing of the others. They seemed cowed by the man's presence.
Randyll Tarly.
She had heard many ghastly things about him, even after their little dalliance in the gardens she couldn't stop her mind from recalling them.
The Cannibal of Horn Hill.
The Hill that Rides.
The Doom of Brightwater.
Fox Raper.
Those were simply the most common of the dozen epithets that had described his foul deeds during the Siege of Brightwater Keep. The washermaids and the stableboys would make mention of how enraged he was at the defiance of the brave Florents, how he would take smallfolk from the nearby villages and hurl them towards their walls just for pettiness sake. They spoke of how they raped mothers in front of children and children in front of mothers, feasting on their flesh after they had their fill.
She thought they were simply too outlandish to be true, mere hearsay and gossip. Yet Randyll Tarly remained an intimidating figure to the popular imagination, even the other bannermen of the Tyrell's were afraid of him.
Yet he smiled and guffawed like a regular man during their stroll through the gardens. He was able to survive the acidic tone of the Queen of Thorns, he seemed patient enough to take the rumors about him with stride.
She remembered the way he laughed, it wasn't a light-hearted joyous laugh. It was a cruel laugh, a laugh at her expense.
He laughed at her, no doubt thinking she was some sort of stupid little girl.
And in a manner of speaking, he was in the right to laugh.
She was a stupid little girl.
A stupid little girl who had made too many mistakes in her life.
She did not return to her bedchambers after the dinner. She had too much in her mind to feel the need for sleep. She instead found herself leaning over the railings of a balcony in one of the newer towers of Highgarden.
The castle was lit by a dozen torches, but she preferred to let the moon light shine upon them. She remembered a time like this.
A time long before the ugliness of the Usurper's Rebellion
Back in Harrenhal.
She frowned dismally as she thought back of that torrid affair, when Lord Whent arranged his enormous tourney. She still remembered the look of surprise on Elia's face as Prince Rhaegar passed their pavilion and crowned Lyanna Stark instead as his Queen of love and beauty.
She remembered it so vividly, like it was merely a day before. She remembered most especially those Stark boys.
She felt the tears streaming down her cheeks as they dripped onto the stone railing.
She was crying without her knowing. She tried to wipe it away, tried to banish the thoughts, but it was too late
Already she remembered the passing nine months, and how it ended with only heartbreak and despair. The only thing keeping her within this world was the return of her ruined brother.
Oh Arthur.
She wept madly as she saw the sorry state of her beloved brother. She had thought the man incapable of defeat, a smile constantly on his face. Ever since they were mere children, he was ever there to reassure her everything would be fine.
But nothing was fine. All of it had fallen into shit and misery.
Hearing Arthurs maddened screaming as the Maester went to work on treating the infection, seeing the look on his face when he had awaken and saw that the hand that once held Dawn and he had sworn to use to protect his King was missing.
Her heart had broken into a dozen pieces.
Eddard Stark.
Damn his soul to the Seven hells.
Now she was assaulted by the swords of memory and regret, they tore into her mind with the strength of the Warrior himself. She remembered all at once her time with sweet Elia, of the Stark boys, of the nine months that had passed, of Arthur and of the tragedy of Robert's Rebellion.
She felt her heart reeling from the sheer force of the pain and agony that was returning. All of her time mourning and weeping for the misfortune that had befallen upon her was coming back once more to haunt her, condensed into one single moment.
Unknowingly she found herself now standing atop of the railing, a rush of wind blowing pass her.
Why was she doing this?
She didn't know.
She enjoyed a final view of the moon shining on atop of her, she enjoyed seeing the twinkling stars blinking like jewels on top of the night's blanket for one last time.
She closed her eyes, and allowed the Gods to take her.
She heard footsteps and pain, she felt immense pain.
Something was enclosed around her waist in a tight grip, her breath was finding it difficult to leave her lungs. She opened her eyes; seeing the ground beneath her many yards below, a small gaggle of knights riding down pass. What would have happened if she had fallen on top one of them?
She heard heavy grunting, and a sharp pull as they both fell into the ground.
She remained stunned on the floor, her eyes falling on the person who had prevented her fall.
Randyll Tarly was glowering at her, Heartsbane lying on the ground several feet away.
"If you wish to kill yourself, then have the courtesy to do in within your own holdings." He barked out angered.
Why?
Why did he save her?
Why was he even here?
"Why?" She dully asked, the emotion drained from her.
"Why what? Speak sense you daft girl." He spat out with venom.
"You sound enraged, enraged that I was about to end my life. Why save me only to have naught but anger?" She spoke with an empty voice, even with her broken tears.
"Why would I not be angered by such a display? You bring dishonor to my Lord for killing yourself within the confines of his seat. The shame would be deplorable." Was that the reason? Not because she was going to kill herself? But because she was doing it within Highgarden?
The tears only continued even more.
"Who the fuck cares about dishonor!?" She lashed out with a heavy voice, she grabbed her shoulders, her beautiful black hair falling over her eyes and face. The wind that she once embraced now chilling her to the bone.
"You should have let me fall!" She screamed out with a strained voice.
"Why didn't you let me fall." She croaked out with wretched despair.
"Fall like a star." She whispered despondently.
She couldn't see him, the strands of her hair blocked her view.
"You are weak." He said contemptuously.
"A weak and pathetic girl." She felt her heart beat with a raging intensity.
" I am not weak." She said as she looked upwards to him, what little she saw of him revealed a grim and cold figure standing over her.
"Truly? Then you shivering on the floor is but a ruse I suppose?" He said scathingly.
"You have no inkling of the suffering I have lived through, the amount of pain that the Gods have punished me with." She whined out, the memories coming back.
"And you have no inkling of the suffering that I have been witness to. Your problems nothing to the battles I've lived through." She wanted to hit him, to show him her wroth.
"You know nothing of what it feels like to lose a child." She heard nothing but silence, it terrified her.
"You lied then, of your untouched maidenhead." His tone was disturbingly neutral as he spoke.
"Yes, indeed I am afraid to inform you that I truly am the harlot that you feared I was." She wretchedly smiled at him, hoping that he would now grant her the release she desperately craved for.
"We promised to not speak of whores and stags." His gloved hands parted the hair from her face. He held her cheeks, the touch of cold leather cooling her.
She tried to shift her head away, but he firmly held it in place. She eventually relented, fearful of what was about to happen.
He had a cursory and impassive look as his eyes stared into hers.
His eyes were a bright hazel, she never noticed such eyes. They were pretty eyes.
"What are you doing?" She asked now with a bit calmer, the conflicting emotions within her had lain still. Randyll Tarly's direct gaze had terrified them into silence.
"In the aftermath of battle, some men are struck with a momentary illness of the mind. The Maesters have no word for it. Men who are diseased in such a manner remain still; they do not respond to any sound or touch, their eyes simply gaze into air and they often are driven to kill themselves. I'm simply looking for such signs in you." She was getting calmer and calmer as he spoke. Randyll Tarly had a soothing voice when spoken softly.
"You think me a soldier?" She whispered out in amusement.
"The Dornish have queer customs do they not? They let their women act like men and their men act like women. So far I have seen nothing of this battle-madness within you. So why then you speak of suffering?" He let go of his hands, now he simply crouched. Their faces now directly in front one and another.
"There is a small voice in your head. In lives there like an unwelcome guest. It whispers to you that all you do is for naught, and everything you strive to do will end in mere failure. That everything you do will harm the ones you love, that you will fail them no matter how hard you tried." Her voice was hoarse, but she couldn't stop herself from talking.
"If the voice is small and you are not weak, then I see no reason why you cannot kill it with a blade." She never thought Randyll Tarly would say something so dumb.
"It isn't so simple." She murmured out.
"Therein lies the problem, only a weakling would say such a thing. This voice then, what does it say to you exact?" She wasn't going to tell him.
"You have no business in my affairs." The sound of a loud slap shook her from her daze.
She touched her raw cheek, utterly bewildered by what had just happened.
"The voice, tell me what does it say now." His voice remained utterly cool, no hint of emotion seeping outwards.
"I-It tells me I deserved that. That I deserve worse." She croaked out, her hand wavering as she felt the redness.
"Listen to mine voice. You are Ashara Dayne. You are a Dornish wench, wild and untamable in her passions. A Reachman has just slapped you most rudely within the cusp of great despair. What would your Dornish upbringing suggest in response? "She slapped him suddenly, his head turned.
He ran a finger down his reddening cheek, she felt no fear as he stared at her.
"What does the voice say now?" She gave him an unpleased frown.
"Fuck the voice. That hurt you cur." She spat with dripping venom.
"Truly? In my case I felt only a dainty smack." He said mildly.
"I do not understand; you fist speak of your Lord's honor, but now you act as if you actually care." It vexed her that he was being so inconsistent.
"Of course I care; you are to be mine wife." She felt numbness as he said that. Her face set with a shocked passiveness.
"What?" She asked plainly.
"I have changed mine mind. When Lady Olenna Tyrell first spoke of this match, I was against it; but seeing you in such a state. It is quite deplorable; I scarcely think there any man willing to suffer such a mercurial wife." He stood up retrieving Heartsbane.
She remained confused.
"You called me weak! You questioned my fidelity! W-Why on the name of the Seven do you suddenly find myself a worthy match!?" She staggered upwards clumsily, completely shaken by his declaration.
"When a man takes a wife, there is always the fear of adultery. In your case I feel I can enjoy the comfort of not fearing such a thing." What?
"Since you've already confessed to such a deed, I can rest easy knowing that I can undo you if I were to ever discover you giving me the horns." She couldn't believe this.
Blackmail, this was why he wished to marry her.
"You are despicable." She said stunned by such cruelty.
"That is alright, I do not need your love. Only know that this is for your sake as well as mine." She couldn't believe how brazen his words were.
"Mine sake?" She repeated incredulously.
"You know how I came across you here? This is where the Maester makes his quarters. I had to go to the rookery for a letter from Horn Hill. It was through whim that I saw you standing by your lonesome. If I hadn't we wouldn't be having this conversation." She ground her teeth.
"And that is my wish, I have no desire talking to you. A man who wants me his wife because he can control me. I refuse to let such a thing happen." Randyll Tarly had an amused look to him.
"You think I want to control you? I have no need for such a thing. All I wish is for your womb to give me a strong heir. That is all." She felt the tears returning once more.
"What say do I have then if I am to be the mother of your spawn?" She hated him, she had thought the tales were false, but now she saw why they quickly spread.
Randyll Tarly was a stone-hearted man.
His brow had raised slightly, regarding her with a queer look.
"You'll have as much say as you can? You are their mother. You think me daft that I refuse my wife to tend to her children? In part this is also why I feel you a suitable wife. You are caring." Caring?
"Caring?" She repeated.
"Of course. You said so yourself, that you fear hurting those you love. A mother who doesn't love her children is cursed." That sounded gentle, a surprise.
"What of the father?" His face was set impassively.
"He must care for his bloodline, for his House. For that I need a strong heir, love is not needed." So cold, so cruel.
"Love is needed." She spoke quietly
"Love is needed Lord Randyll. Without love a child is forsaken. Without love, husband and wife are nothing more than two strangers who share the same bed." Randyll snorted at that.
"I do not believe love is important as you say it is." She frowned.
"I will make you regret those words Lord Randyll." He narrowed his eyes, a smirk on his lips.
"Oh?" He asked curiously.
"Your heart Lord Randyll. I shall make it mine, and cut it deeper than your sword ever will." She declared boldly.
He had a look of surprise as she said those words. She herself was surprised she had spoken them.
He frowned.
"Do not make promises you cannot keep." He said with bile, to which she gave him an audacious grin.
"I do not intend to so Lord Randyll. You have dammed yourself for saving mine life, for such a misdeed you shall suffer my presence for as long as I live." That did it.
She felt an internal glee at how those words affected Lord Tarly. Now she knew why she said them.
He shifted uncomfortably, diverting his gaze like a flustered squire. He ground his teeth and held his arms in front of him.
She was going to avenge herself, to have vengeance on the man who kept her here in this cold world.
Her life was to be forfeit, he had taken that away from her. For that he needed to suffer, no longer would she care about her own suffering.
She was going to hurt him, using a blade far more sharper and more crueler than Heartsbane or even Dawn.
A sword called Love.