Of White Trees and Blue Roses

I own nothing. This all belongs to GRRM, and I'm just playing with the story he gave us.

Now, I'm going to try my best to approximate where everyone would have been at this point in time based on the information I have, but please forgive me if I'm a little out on a few facts.

I did start this as a collection of drabbles, but as it's going to take a while to get through all the POVs, I thought I'd separate into parts.

~X~

Chapter Thirty Nine – Calm Before the Storm (Part 1)

Ashara

As the boat moored at the jetty of the small riverside town, a break on the journey from High Hermitage back to Starfall, Ashara reluctantly got ready to go ashore. For a brief second she considered using the gold in her purse to buy a horse to head straight back to her son, but she knew that she had outstayed her welcome.

Ashara had tried to hold back, tried to remind herself that she wasn't "Gerold's" mother, but it wasn't something that was easy to forget. Maybe she had accidentally called him Brandon one too many times, or maybe her habit of being the first to tend to him when he cried out had pushed her luck, but the attitude of her distant relatives had cooled and finally the raven she had been dreading had arrived.

Her parents wanted her to return home. They thought she had put upon High Hermitage's hospitality for too long, and it was about time she left her bastard behind and returned to her duties.

What duties? What could possibly be more important than being there for her son? She knew only too well what her parents wanted from her—they wanted to marry her off.

Thinking of her childhood home, Ashara remembered a younger, more naive version of herself in her room at the top of the tower they called the Palestone Sword. With her fair hair she'd imagined herself a lost Targaryen princess, for her accommodations had certainly been fit for royalty.

She'd always been beautiful, and everyone said that if ever there had been someone likely to make a good marriage it had been her. These compliments had always pleased her parents. Ashara herself had always been less concerned with title than winning herself a rugged, handsome Ser. From the moment she'd set eyes on him that knight she'd set her heart on years earlier had been Brandon Stark.

With a wan smile as she wrapped her lavender cloak around her, Ashara regretted her naivety and misguided actions. She'd listened to so many protestations of her beauty down the years that she'd thought that, once she'd decided who she wanted, that person would fall at her feet immediately.

No, she was older and wiser now.

For a second she wondered if, knowing how things had turned out, she would have acted any differently? Maybe the seduction of Brandon had been misguided, but without it she would never have gotten pregnant. Her strong baby boy was more than worth the fall from grace.

Did she miss her position at court? Her marriage prospects? No, not at all. Maybe she missed Elia's company and the other ladies-in-waiting, but position had never been at the forefront of Ashara's mind. She'd wanted love. And once she'd found love she wanted a family.

Fate had put both in her lap, and then snatched them away.

Ashara physically ached with the loss, and tried to distract herself with a small market selling trinkets and foreign curiosities. As the river led into the Summer Sea, many foreigners would set up in the towns and villages to sell their wares.

Running her fingers over a statuette of a strange beast that could almost be a wolf, Ashara found herself thinking of Eddard Stark.

If she had gone for the tamer wolf, maybe she could have had the family life she wanted. He would have been a good father, Ashara told herself. She might not have been inspired to the heights of passion, but one day he would make someone an ideal husband. He would be steady, faithful, and adore that woman. That woman could have been her.

And he was Lord of Winterfell now that Brandon had been murdered. But for how long? She'd heard whispers of the rebellion in the north and east of the country, and she knew that the king had called for Eddard's head.

If only things had been more settled, Ashara thought. She'd steal her child away and head to the frozen north. Eddard would take her in, she was sure. He might not be her towering, powerful knight but he would ensure she was safe and protected—and his bastard nephew, too.

But what chance did she have if he was away fighting a war? The mad king would send the best of his forces against the rebels and they would be crushed.

Ashara mourned the beautiful impossible dream and poor noble Eddard Stark's inevitable death, and tried to will another way to be with her child into fruition.

It was then that she caught sight of the blue-haired Tyroshi man and the bottles of exotic dyes he was selling. She looked carefully through them all. If she wanted, she could have hair of yellow, blue, green, red, black, purple...any colour you could think of.

Ashara picked a bottle up and read the label more closely. The Tyroshi salesman came over to assist her.

Ashara smiled. "This dye would change the colour of my hair? How much?"

"You have beautiful hair, my lady. It is white like fresh milk. It would be such a shame to alter it in any way, but yes, with hair as pale as yours any of these colours would take very well. Only one dragon for each."

With the widest of smiles, Lady Ashara reached into her pocket and handed over five gold coins.

~x~

Rhaegar

Rhaegar opened his eyes to the sound of insistent cawing, the way it was echoing in the black bedroom and the surreal angles of the familiar surroundings informing him that he was not yet awake. The three-eyed crow was perched on a nearby chair and continued his chorus.

It had been a while. Here at the Tower of Joy, his dreams had been happy or pleasurable ones for the most part, or at worst manifestations of his own guilt and conflict twisted into nightmarish symbolism.

This dream, however, was instantly different. As if the crow was not sign enough, there was that feeling he had felt many times before—most notably the last time the crow had shown him this place and the images hidden behind the doors that were now bedrooms for Lyanna, Arthur, and himself.

Rhaegar climbed out of bed, noticing that he was fully clothed, not naked as he had gone to sleep. Instead of his usual clothing, he found himself in worn black leather and a ragged black cloak. He looked over at Lyanna sleeping and somehow wasn't surprised to see that instead of a girl a huge wolf lay under the blankets.

The three-eyed crow hopped over to the ladders leading to the roof, and obediently Rhaegar climbed up and through the hatch.

Instead of Dorne, he found himself looking down at a collection of semi-destroyed buildings in the snow. A quick glimpse to his left told him exactly where this place was—a wall of ice towered above him. The Wall—the dividing line between the northern-most reaches of Westeros and the wild lands beyond.

That was when his blood began to scald him, and with a yelp he looked down at himself. His hands, usually well cared for, looked soiled, worn, and different, yet there was no sign of the fire that burned him.

"You said that, if I could look in the flames and tell you who your mother was, you would believe me. Come, Azor Ahai." A feminine voice with a thick accent spoke behind him.

Rhaegar turned around and saw a red-haired woman—a red priestess. Taking a few moments to think, Rhaegar recalled that Azor Ahai was the term used by the followers of R'hllor, and the equivalent to what Rhaegar believed was the Prince that was Promised.

Her red robes swirled in the snow as she stepped over to a burning brazier. Near the brazier, a huge white wolf basked in its warmth, its red eyes reflecting the flames. Rhaegar wondered whether the wolf was symbolic, as he felt hugely drawn and connected to the beast. In fact, it almost seemed as if he could see an echo of himself through its eyes, as if they were one and the same.

Rhaegar wondered whether it was the heat the wolf was feeling from this lonely fire that was scorching his flesh, as he himself was too far away, but the heat seemed to come from within. On his skin, Rhaegar could feel the bite of the cold, icy night, though it couldn't penetrate through the unseen flames.

Interested as to what the dream and the red woman might show him, he approached the brazier. Instantly, the fire burned brighter and more fiercely, and the red priestess smiled.

"Come. Look."

Rhaegar stepped closer and looked into the flames, but saw nothing but dancing yellow and orange.

"Your mother is dead. She did not survive long after your birth, but she lived long enough to name you, though that is not the name you carry now."

My mother is not dead—she lives still, in King's Landing. Rhaegar went to speak but couldn't force his lips to move. Instead, a different voice and a different question came from his mouth.

"What was her name?"

The flames surged again, and the red woman looked into the fire intensely. "Her name you've heard many times, though you've never thought of her as your mother. She is a noble woman, and she birthed you in Dorne—"

"No tricks. Give me a name." The strange voice that Rhaegar couldn't control asked again, though he felt the desperation behind the impatience.

"You know her as your aunt."

Something within Rhaegar recoiled, though he was now coming to realise that it was not his own reaction, and that he was merely observing through someone else's eyes. "No. That's not true. You're lying."

The red woman gave a stern look. "You asked me a question, Azor Ahai, and I have told you. Maybe the answer I should have given you is that the biggest mystery is not who was your mother, but instead who was your father. You have grown up thinking that you were fathered by Eddard Stark, but this is not true. It was a deception designed to hide your true parentage."

"But that doesn't make any sense. Why would Ned Stark tell everyone I was his bastard all these years? Who could he be protecting?"

The red woman gave a sympathetic look. "He made a promise to your mother on her deathbed—a promise to keep you safe. You might not be his son, but you are of his blood. He knew that if anyone knew your true heritage, you wouldn't live long enough to take your first steps. It seemed logical to claim you as his own, as you have the look of a Stark and it would be easy to believe."

"Who? I want a name!"

"There is power in your blood, Azor Ahai. I will give you his name, but first we must get you your flaming sword."

"You want to give me a pretty sword, like the one you gave Stannis? Didn't you think he was your lord for a while?" Rhaegar looked down to where his borrowed hands gripped the hilt of a sword, its hilt carved in the shape of a wolf's head.

"No, not like the sword I gave Stannis. I convinced myself he was the one, but I was wrong. That was a trick, an illusion. A wrong step on the road to finding the true saviour."

"How do you know you're not wrong this time? You think I'm the one to save us all from what's coming." Rhaegar's head indicated the ice wall. "I'd hate to go out there and face them only to find out you'd made another mistake."

The red priestess looked irritated. "There will be no more mistakes. Only fire can defeat the coldness of death and you, Azor Ahai, are R'hllor's champion. The dragons have come again in the east, yet the Targaryens squabble over the throne. They will not be here in time for the first assault—you will be. You can feel the fire in your veins, just as I feel it. That was a gift from R'hllor when he allowed me to bring you back."

"I thought you said it was because I went into the wolf."

Glaring, the woman held out her hand. "Give me your sword and I will show you that I am not wrong."

Rhaegar drew his wolf-headed sword, noticing that it was made of Valyrian steel, but not a blade that he was familiar with. Valyrian steel weapons were rare and expensive, and one did not come across them by chance. Valyrian steel was dragon steel, and as effective as obsidian against the ice demons that would come in the long night.

His borrowed hands held out the sword for the woman to take.

"So, Jon Snow, how well do you know the story of Azor Ahai?"

With a deep breath, Rhaegar sat up and found himself in bed, naked but covered with a thin blanket, with the grey light of early morning seeping through the window. Taking a moment to recognise that the snow, the Wall, and the red woman were gone, Rhaegar basked in the pleasant Dornish morning, glad that his skin no longer scalded him.

To his left, Lyanna shifted in her sleep and turned to fit into the nook by the side of his body. He allowed himself to lie there and enjoy her skin against his while he rationalised his dream in his mind.

He wondered who it was he had been watching in his dream. Jon Snow. Maybe he was the child of Brandon Stark and Ashara Dayne? Snow was the surname they gave bastards in the north, and it seemed like the boy had been raised thinking he was the son of Eddard Stark, whose guardian and mentor was Jon Arryn. Rhaegar's mind went back to the time he'd seen him in Harrenhal's godswood with Lady Ashara.

Yes, that would make perfect sense. But was that child truly Azor Ahai? Rhaegar had convinced himself that the Prince that was Promised would come from his own line.

But weren't the Starks the Kings in the North before Aegon Targaryen had come and united the Seven Kingdoms? It could be said that a son of the Stark line was a prince, and the woman laying beside him a warrior princess.

"The dragons have come again in the east, yet the Targaryens squabble over the throne. They will not be here in time for the first assault." Rhaegar remembered the red priestess's words. So the dragons will come. And there will be three, he already knew.

He kissed Lyanna on the forehead before extricating himself from the arms that tangled around him, and then climbed out of bed.